


and i'll do anything you say (if you say it with your hands)

by nebulastucky



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Bending (Avatar TV), Bisexual Sokka (Avatar), Casual Sex, Friends With Benefits, Fuckbuddies, Gay Zuko (Avatar), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Non-Graphic Smut, Slow Burn, Sokka (Avatar)-centric, Title from a Taylor Swift Song, Wedding fever, based on a reddit post, borderline crack fic, idiots to lovers, if anyone needs clarification yes theyre fully grown adults in this im not a nonce, love is stored in the cat, lovers to friends to lovers again, momo is a cat, ok maybe the angst isnt that light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:04:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nebulastucky/pseuds/nebulastucky
Summary: It’s supposed to be a one night stand. Pick up some guy at a bar, barely remember his name and never learn anything real about him, send him packing in the morning with a thanks for the ride and a cup of coffee to-go. That’s how it’s supposed to go.But then it’s the best sex Sokka has ever had, and he thinks he’ll hate himself if he never gets to have it again.or: My Cat Likes My Fuckbuddy And I'm Falling In Love With Him Over It
Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)
Comments: 914
Kudos: 2343
Collections: Crow's collection of shinys, best of avatar, zukka that makes me go uwu, zuko best boi





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to ella, carla, and emily as always for their support, great work on this one team <33
> 
> i couldnt find the original but this fic is based on this reddit post: https://twitter.com/redditships/status/1316080727780360193?s=20
> 
> title comes from treacherous by taylor swift
> 
> edit: ive changed the rating of this fic from explicit to mature and cut out a little of the last scene of the first chapter to make it fit that rating. it felt more fitting with the tone and content level of the rest of the fic. yay for artistic consistency!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommended listening for this chapter:  
> treacherous by taylor swift  
> don't you go by all time low  
> bloodline by ariana grande

It’s supposed to be a one night stand. Pick up some guy at a bar, barely remember his name and never learn anything real about him, send him packing in the morning with a _thanks for the ride_ and a cup of coffee to-go. That’s how it’s supposed to go.

But then it’s the best sex Sokka has ever had, and he thinks he’ll hate himself if he never gets to have it again.

He comes out of the shower, towelling his hair, and there’s a beautiful man rummaging through a pile of discarded clothes trying to find what’s his. The scar that takes up one side of his face is less mysterious and more mundane in the morning light.

“Hey,” Sokka says, and offers him his phone. “Could I get your number?”

“Oh,” the guy says, but he takes it. “I didn’t think this would be that kind of thing.”

“Me neither,” Sokka admits, “but I had the time of my damn life last night, and I'd never forgive myself if I didn't at least _try_ to make a habit of it. If - if that’s something you want, obviously. You can totally tell me to get lost.”

“No! No, sorry, here -” His tongue pokes out between his teeth as he navigates Sokka’s phone. He types out his number into a fresh contact and gives Sokka a sheepish smile when he hands the phone back.

“Me too, by the way,” he says, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed. “About the, um, time of my life thing. Me too.”

Sokka flashes him a grin. He looks at the contact page long enough to commit the name _Zuko_ to memory, and then he sees the time, and his face falls. 

He swears. “I have to be out of here in ten minutes or my boss will be calling for my head on a plate. Just, um -”

He looks at Zuko, perched on the corner of his bed in nothing but his boxers, a pair of expensive jeans bunched in one hand. His eyes are kind and understanding, and Sokka has trouble for a moment, trying to reconcile this version of him with the one who made Sokka forget his own name last night.

“You’re welcome to anything in the fridge,” Sokka says eventually. “There’s probably coffee, too, my roommate usually makes some before she leaves. Just put the cat out and don’t rob me.”

Sokka dresses in a flash, not bothering to hide himself away from Zuko’s eyes. He can feel them on him from the second he drops the towel at his waist, but he doesn’t have time for modesty. 

“You have a cat?”

Sokka shrugs on a jacket, patting the pockets as he answers, “Yeah. Momo. You’re not allergic or anything, are you?”

“No, I - I love cats. I just didn’t think you’d be the type.” Zuko runs a hand through his hair, leaving it messier than it was already. Sokka doesn’t know whether to curse or worship at the feet of his parents for how attractive it is.

He ducks into the bathroom, more grateful than ever for the weird layout of this apartment that technically gives both him and Suki an ensuite, and pauses a moment at the sink to make a decision. Time is still slipping away, and he’s not interested in starting the week on Piandao’s bad side, so he takes a swig of mouthwash over brushing his teeth. He swishes for a few seconds, the clock in his head ticking on and on and on, and spits.

When he turns, Zuko is leaning in the doorway, arms folded across his bare chest. There’s a mark on his collarbone in the shape of Sokka’s mouth that makes something animal flare up in Sokka’s abdomen.

“Momo used to be my friend’s cat, but then Aang’s apartment flooded and he had to move,” Sokka explains. “The new place doesn’t allow pets, and he didn’t think he could keep a cat _and_ a dog secret long enough to not end up homeless, so I took Momo.”

Zuko laughs, light and without any self-consciousness, and Sokka tries to remember if he’d heard that sound last night. When his memory only serves up the deep, sultry laugh of a man trying to get into someone’s pants - the kind that’s more flirting than actual mirth - he makes a mental note to figure out how to get the real thing out of him more often.

Sokka brushes past him back into his room and wrestles with the first matching pair of shoes he can get his hands on. He tucks the laces into the sides of the sneakers - he’ll tie them in the elevator when he has a second to breathe - and checks the time on his phone again.

“I really have to go,” he says. “It was, uh, nice meeting you, I guess? Let’s do this again sometime - well, I mean, not _this,_ but - you know what I mean. I’ll text you.”

Zuko huffs another laugh, and he’s really just _unfairly_ handsome. Sokka knows he’s good-looking, but he’s not sure he’s ever pulled anyone _this_ far out of his league. Except maybe Suki, but he doesn’t think either of them count that anymore.

“Go,” Zuko says. “You don’t want to hit traffic if you’re already rushing. I’ll take care of the cat, don’t worry about it.”

Sokka spares himself one last look at Zuko and spies another bruise, this one just left of the hollow of his throat. He remembers the tang of sweat and the sharp pleasure of nails down his back, and loses all semblance of rational thought for a moment.

“One more thing,” he says, and Zuko looks at him just in time to not have his head turned by force as Sokka presses a searing kiss to his mouth. Zuko grabs fistfulls of Sokka’s jacket and falls into the kiss with grace and enthusiasm, encouraged by the arm Sokka hooks around his neck.

Sokka pulls away before he can get too distracted, and for a moment he thinks Zuko will chase him. Instead, Zuko says, “Text me by lunch and I’ll see if I can get my place to myself tomorrow night.”

“I will absolutely do that,” Sokka promises, and then he’s running out the door. He nearly trips over Momo in the living room, a snow-white menace darting between his legs to investigate the stranger taking up his favourite nap spot.

* * *

He makes it to work with four minutes to spare and a smug smile still on his face. He waves cheerily to Piandao on his way to clock in, and gets a quizzical look in return. 

Two hours of mind-numbing work later, he finds Toph by the overloaded coffee cart they call a break room, engaged in some sort of honour-duel with the espresso machine. It’s seen better days, and those days were already long gone when Sokka joined the company.

“Is it broken again?” he asks. “Let me get a look at it.”

“It’s not broken,” Toph insists. “At least, I didn’t break it. It was like this when I got here. Mostly. The burning smell might be my fault, but the machine started it.”

“How long is your break?” 

“That depends, what time is it now?”

Sokka checks his phone. “Almost eleven. I’ve only got fifteen minutes, so if we’re going somewhere -”

“You can have twenty-five if you help a poor blind lady get to the Starbucks down the street.”

Sokka laughs. He snatches a post-it note from his desk and scribbles a warning for the next person to brave the coffee machine. “I thought you hated community service.”

“Not when I’m the community being serviced,” Toph scoffs. Toph Beifong has never needed help in all the years Sokka has known her, but the gods of late-morning break times don’t need to know that. 

Sokka pops his head into Piandao’s office - the only one with real walls instead of flimsy cubicle dividers - to let him know the machine is broken again. Piandao waves him away without taking his eyes off his computer screen, and with that scintillating conversation done with, they’re off.

In the elevator, Toph asks, “Did you go out last night? You smell like spilled Listerine.”

“I do not,” Sokka insists, though he has no way to be sure. “But yes, if you must know, I did go out last night.”

“And you didn’t invite me,” Toph tuts. “For shame, Snoozles.”

The elevator dings, and the doors creak open. One of these days, this thing is going to crap out on them too, and Sokka will probably be trapped inside. 

“I wasn’t really in the mood for company,” Sokka says. “Not your kind of company, at least.”

“Oh,” Toph says. Then, suddenly, “ _OH._ Why didn’t you say so?”

The street outside is busier than it usually is, cars and people flying past at speeds that are either illegal or inhuman. Sokka offers his arm to Toph, and she shoves him close enough to the oncoming traffic that he wonders why he’s even friends with her.

But then she takes his arm and says, “So? Spill,” and he remembers.

He tells her everything, because he always does, because he knows she’d tell him. There is no detail too personal, no scene too graphic. Sokka often wonders, when he’s talking to Toph about this kind of thing, if this is how white women with lifestyle podcasts feel.

Sokka pays for Toph’s outrageous sugar-fest of a coffee and leaves the barista a generous tip for having to hear him say “tongue” so many times while waiting for their drinks. She gives him a grim smile as he stuffs a bill into the jar at the register, and he tries not to meet her eye.

Sitting on the floor of the lobby of their building, Toph asks, “So do you think you’ll see him again?”

“Yeah, I hope so,” Sokka says. His phone seems heavier in his pocket. “I mean, it’s just sex, but it’s _really good_ sex.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Like, mind-blowingly good sex.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Like, ins-”

“I got it, Sokka,” Toph says again. “Thanks.”

* * *

**[Sokka / / 13:46]** did you get out ok this morning??

 **[Sokka / / 13:47]** this is sokka from last night fyi

**[Zuko / / 13:49]** I gathered. 

**[Zuko / / 13:49]** I got out fine, your place is actually right by where I work.

**[Sokka / / 13:52]** sorry suki didn’t leave any coffee :/

**[Zuko / / 13:53]** Don’t worry about it, I’m more of a tea guy anyway.

 **[Zuko / / 14:01]** Thank you for actually texting, by the way. A lot of guys don’t.

**[Sokka / / 14:03]** thank YOU for the crazy hot sex

 **[Sokka / / 14:03]** i look forward to having it again at your earliest convenience 

**[Zuko / / 14:05]** It was, and I mean this as sincerely as possible, my pleasure.

* * *

Piandao pulls Sokka into a meeting with a couple of potential new clients as soon as he gets back from lunch. He just has time to choke down a breath mint before he’s dragged into what would barely count as a closet at a bigger company but Piandao calls a board room, and then he spends the next hour and a half stammering his way through a demonstration of the various coding and encryption services the company offers. 

Sokka thinks surprise presentations must be against some union rule somewhere, but he’s not sure a chronic fear of public speaking is a strong enough case to get anywhere. He has no trouble answering questions, that’s something he can do almost without thinking, but having to hunch over a laptop connected to a projector that’s even worse off than the coffee machine and _explain_ things is a whole other beast.

When he gets out, finally, he falls into his creaking chair at his creaking desk and tries to quell his creaking nerves. 

Toph’s head pops over the divider in front of him. Their desks haven’t always been this close, but as the only assholes getting anything done around here - Toph’s words - they have enough sway with Piandao to control their own seating chart. There’s also the fact that office-wide productivity improves when they don’t have to yell at each other from opposite sides of the room to have a conversation.

“I will never understand why he asks you to present every time,” Toph says. “It’s like he’s trying to scare them off.”

“Maybe he is,” Sokka considers. “Or maybe I’m just the only person who knows how to keep that stupid projector from blowing up and killing us all.”

“Is Suki working tonight?” Toph asks.

“Yeah, I think so. Why?”

“Because you need a drink,” she says, “and if I’m buying, I am _not_ paying full price.”

“I don’t know,” Sokka says. “I went out last night already.”

“And look how well that turned out! Come on, it’s been forever.”

Sokka frowns at her. “We went out on Wednesday.”

“And today’s Monday, that’s basically a month.”

Hard to argue with that logic. “Fine. I’ll tell Suki to expect us.”

“That’s my boy,” Toph says, triumphant at last. “Now quit slacking. This is a place of business.”

“Your computer’s not even _on,_ ” Sokka huffs, but she’s gone again, back behind the divider before he can blink. 

He digs his phone from the pile of papers on his desk to text Suki the bad news, and finds two messages already waiting for him.

**[Zuko / / 15:46]** Tomorrow’s a no-go. It’s my sister’s turn to host girls’ night, apparently.

 **[Zuko / / 15:47]** Why I have to be there while she talks shit with her friends, she wouldn’t say.

Sokka does some mental math to see if his place is vacant for the night, but it’s not. Tuesday nights are reserved for Aang and Katara to come over to see Momo and complain about hospital hours, respectively. 

**[Sokka / / 16:25]** tomorrow’s me and suki’s girls night too

 **[Sokka / / 16:25]** small world

He could invite Zuko over, sure, but he barely knows the guy - and he knows his sister well enough to know exactly how she’d feel about him arranging a hookup for the one night a week she gets to see him. He doesn’t think he can endure another noise complaint conversation with his landlord.

He sighs, loud and melodramatic. Maybe this thing just isn’t meant to be. He _really_ wants it to be, though.

**[Sokka / / 16:27]** another time?

**[Zuko / / 16:28]** Another time sounds good.

He lets out a long, relieved breath. The last thing he wants is to scare this guy away by seeming _too_ eager. He could pick up someone new any night of the week, no problem, but he doubts he’ll ever forget the feeling of Zuko’s -

Toph swears gruffly on the other side of the divider, and Sokka remembers in a hurry that he actually had a reason to pick up his phone. 

**[Sokka / / 16:30]** heads up me and toph are coming in tonight

**[Suki / / 16:31]** there goes my paycheck 

**[Sokka / / 16:31]** 😘

He drops his phone back on the desk and promptly loses sight of it among the papers again.

* * *

“One drink,” Sokka tells Toph as he holds open the door for her. “I mean it.”

“Sure you do,” she says, her smile like a shark. “Just like you meant it last time.”

Sokka rolls his eyes at her, but it’s not like she’s wrong. Every time they go out for after-work drinks, he tells himself it’ll only be after-work _drink,_ but it never works. It turns into two or three or four, and then Toph spends the night on the couch Suki bought second or third or fourth hand for less than she makes in a single shift, and she curses him in the morning when she has to walk to work instead of taking the bus.

But it’s fun to sit on the tall stools at the bar and pretend to be grumpy old men when Suki comes around to be annoyed by them, so they do it anyway.

It’s a Monday, so the Flying Bison is quiet when Sokka and Toph take their spot at the end of the bar. It’s mostly populated by business people like themselves trying to take the edge off after a long day doing something real and hands-on like sales representing or accounting, with the occasional actual grumpy old man slumped over a beer in a corner booth.

Suki’s blinding customer service smile slides clean off her face as she moves along the bar toward them, away from actual real customers who pay for their drinks in full.

“If I get called _sugar_ or _sweetheart_ one more time, I’m gonna start throwing punches,” she says. “I swear, if my manager tonight weren’t _one of them_ I’d already be kicking some of these old guys out.”

Sokka checks the time on his phone. “Your shift only started half an hour ago.”

“There’s no grace period on misogyny, unfortunately,” she sighs. “The patriarchy never needs a warm-up. It’s reliable like that.”

She pulls a couple of glasses from behind the bar. “The usual?”

 _The usual_ for Toph is gin and tonic. For Sokka, it’s rum and coke until the third drink, at which point he picks a colour and gets Suki to mix something expensive and fruity to match it.

“I’ll have a Long Island,” Toph says, and when Suki chokes on a laugh, she adds, “I’m kidding. The usual is the usual for a reason.”

Someone at the other end of the bar calls out for the attention of _hey, sweetheart!_ and Suki’s laugh is shot dead. Her expression goes stony for the single moment she allows herself to feel the frustration, and then she buries it under the smile that keeps the tip jar full.

“I’ll be right back,” she says. “If you don’t see me for a while, I’ll be in the back filling out a harassment report.”

Sokka pretends to browse the menu for the five minutes she’s gone. He passes the time by making Toph guess the ingredients of cocktails she’ll never try and he’s never heard of.

“What the hell is a julep?” she asks. “That sounds made up.”

Suki returns to pour their drinks. Sokka tries to quiz her, too, but she ignores him. She leaves them again to do something fancy and theatrical with a mixer for a couple of young women who take up the barstools smack in the middle of their party and Mr. Hey Sweetheart. Suki smiles at them, real and gorgeous, and Sokka watches as they turn to putty in her hands.

That’s the thing about the Flying Bison: whether you’re into women or not, you come for the alcohol and always, _always,_ end up staying for the hot bartender.

When Sokka’s drink turns bright blue and he finally feels the stress of the day fall from his shoulders, he leaves Toph at the bar with Suki to talk about whatever girl stuff they don’t talk about when he’s around - rock climbing, martial arts, the current political climate - and heads to the bathroom. 

The bathroom at the Flying Bison is always an interesting trip, because, when it’s not too disgusting to spend more than four seconds in, it sometimes offers a surprise for the brave adventurer. It’s not always bad, sometimes it’s just that - a surprise.

Case in point: when Sokka’s washing his hands, Zuko comes out of the stall next to the one he’d just vacated.

He doesn’t notice at first, not until he looks up from the sink and catches sight of Zuko in the mirror, already looking at him. He freezes for a second, caught off guard by the feeling of being _observed._

“Hey, stranger,” Sokka says, still watching him in the mirror. The corner of Zuko’s mouth ticks up.

“You’re not following me, are you?” Zuko’s tone is seductive, endlessly so, and Sokka wonders while he dries his hands if he has to put it on or if he just _sounds_ like that.

“You give a guy one compliment and he thinks you’re stalking him,” Sokka mutters, and Zuko laughs, low and enticing. Not the genuine, endearing laugh of this morning, but one with an agenda.

Well. Sokka always likes a plan.

“Are you following _me?_ ” Sokka asks. He spies a miraculous dry patch on the sink bank and tries to be casual about the way he hops up to sit on it.

“I might be,” Zuko says, and at Sokka’s raised eyebrow, he continues, “I saw you at the bar and I wanted to talk to you. Sue me.”

“You wanted to talk.”

“Amongst other things.”

Sokka laughs, so surprised by the joke that he doesn’t even have time to try to make it sexy. He must do _something,_ though, because Zuko’s lip curls ravenously, and he takes a step closer to Sokka. Close enough that Sokka could kiss him without making a fool of himself by falling off the sink bank to do it.

“So, what’s on your mind?” Sokka asks. He gives him a flash of a smile, the same one he used last night, the one he knows never fails.

“I just wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t just blowing you off,” Zuko says, and his cheeks light up a soft pink when he notices Sokka’s smirk. “I actually do have girls’ night tomorrow. I’m here with my sister, you can ask her yourself. She’ll probably lie and say she’s never seen me before, but you can still ask her.”

 _Little early to meet the family,_ Sokka thinks. He bites his bottom lip, considering, and watches Zuko track the movement.

“I also wanted to, um - to clarify,” Zuko says. His eyes are still on Sokka’s mouth.

“Clarify?”

Zuko is silent for a long moment, his gaze heady and locked on Sokka’s lips as he sneaks his tongue out to wet them. It’s almost unbearable, the weight of that stare, and Sokka’s starting to think he may die if he doesn’t do something about it soon.

“I’m not - I’m not looking for something serious with this,” Zuko says, finally. “If that’s not what you want, that’s totally fine, I’ll leave you alone, but I -”

“You talk too much,” Sokka says, and kisses him. 

Zuko makes a startled noise from the back of his throat, and Sokka swallows it. Zuko kisses Sokka like he’s starving for it, like he’s trying to leave a bruise, one hand bunched in the front of his shirt and the other palming his neck.

Sokka drapes his arms over Zuko’s shoulders and opens his legs to wrap them around Zuko’s waist and he presses in closer, closer, closer. Sokka’s blood runs hot with wanting, every burning kiss an act of survival.

Zuko breaks away to catch his breath. Between gulps of air, he asks, “So, casual?”

“Casual,” Sokka confirms, and seals their mouths together again.

Zuko kisses him ferociously, insatiable and filthy, drawing all kinds of embarrassing sounds from Sokka as he licks into his mouth. He pulls away again, and Sokka thinks he’s going to say something else, but he latches his mouth to Sokka’s throat instead. His hands trace the curve of Sokka’s ass, trailing down his thighs and back up again, and Sokka thinks he might burst into flames.

“Can we -” he starts, and cuts himself off with a gasp as Zuko’s teeth graze his pulse point. “Is right now good? For - _ah_ \- for casual?”

Zuko doesn’t say anything, just laughs against his skin, and Sokka’s eyes roll back into his head at the sound of it, dark and rasping and impossibly attractive. Zuko _lifts_ him then, strong hands on the underside of his thighs, and it’s almost all over right then and there.

Sokka yelps, half surprise and half something else, but the sound is lost when Zuko kisses him. Sokka tightens his legs around Zuko’s waist and Zuko moans into his mouth, all the way into one of the stalls. Zuko sets him down there, and presses him against the door, using his entire body to hold him there.

Their hips connect, and Sokka sucks in a harsh breath and the same time that Zuko hisses, _“Fuck.”_

Oh, how Sokka wishes, but they’re in a dirty bathroom in the bar where his best friend works, and who knows how many viruses live in this stall. 

Zuko slips a leg between Sokka’s, his mouth back to trailing wet kisses along Sokka’s throat as Sokka grinds down against his thigh. Sokka tugs the hem of Zuko’s shirt free from where it’s tucked into his pants, and he feels like a teenager again, every second spent without his hands on Zuko’s skin is pure torture.

He hesitates a second at the buckle of Zuko’s belt, but Zuko answers the question before he even asks it, an aching whisper of _“Yes, god,”_ at the bolt of Sokka’s jaw.

After, when they’re wiped clean and presentable again, and Zuko doesn’t look like he wants to eat Sokka alive anymore, he holds the door back into the bar open for Sokka. Like he’s a gentleman and not specifically responsible for the red marks Sokka will have to wear a high collar over tomorrow.

Zuko says, as Sokka walks out past him, “Give my regards to Momo.”

His smile when Sokka laughs is a beacon, but maybe that’s the afterglow talking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote a little ficlet about the night before the morning after, you can read that [here](https://goldrushzukka.tumblr.com/post/635941893276090368/before-the-beginning-pls-miss-alex-macdenlesbian/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> check out [bleekay's wonderful art](https://bleekay.tumblr.com/post/638073506218835968/macdenlesbian-s-and-ill-do-anything-you-say-if/) for this chapter
> 
> recommend listening for this chapter:  
> careless whisper by george michael  
> summer love by carly rae jepsen  
> sleeping in by all time low  
> father by the front bottoms  
> sin by tomberlin

Sokka is halfway through his third consecutive episode of Generic Procedural Crime Show when his phone buzzes. Momo, stretched across his lap, swats a white paw at his hand as he reaches for it.

**[Zuko / / 13:02]** Are you home?

**[Sokka / / 13:03]** are you bootycalling me on a saturday afternoon? if so the answer is yes

 **[Sokka / / 13:03]** if not i’ve fled the country

**[Zuko / / 13:04]** I’m a block away.

That’s not as much notice as Sokka would like, but he’s worked under worse deadlines. Momo gives him a gut-wrenching look of betrayal when Sokka moves him onto one of the couch cushions.

The kitchen is a bombsite from last night’s game of Drunk Dinner, but it’s not like they’ll be spending any time in there, so Sokka doesn’t even bother with it. He straightens up a little in the living room, just for the sake of it, before dashing into his room to do as much damage control in there as he can.

He clears the last of the clothes from the floor into the laundry basket in the corner, and catches sight of himself in the mirror. He considers, briefly, putting a shirt on, but he doesn’t have anything that goes with these sweats - _yeah, Sokka,_ he thinks, _colour coordination is the priority_ \- and it’s not until he’s already made the decision to forego the shirt that he remembers it’s bound to come right off again anyway.

He knocks on the bathroom door, more as a warning than anything else, and slips inside.

“Zuko’s coming over,” he says, fiddling with the toothpaste cap.

Suki, from the shower, asks, “What, like, now?”

“Yeah,” Sokka says, though most of the shape of the word is lost in his brushing.

“Do you want me to leave?”

Sokka spits. “You don’t have to. I’m just letting you know I’m about to get spectacularly laid.”

“Ever the gentleman,” Suki drawls. “Hand me that towel, would you?”

The water shuts off and a hand peeks out through a crack in the shower door to take the towel. Suki emerges a moment later, dripping onto the tiles and still adjusting the towel around her chest, her hair scraped into a tight knot on top of her head.

Their eyes meet in the mirror for a moment, Sokka’s toothbrush stilling as Suki grins at him.

“I’m excited to meet him,” she says, finally. “The man who beat me out for the best you’ve ever had.”

Sokka rolls his eyes. They’ve been doing this thing for two weeks now, and Suki has conveniently managed to miss Zuko every time he’s been over. 

He rinses under the tap and says, “You know you’ll always be my favourite ex-girlfriend who I live with.”

“Oh, Sokka, you charmer.”

She disappears into her room. Her towel drops to the floor before the door even closes. Sokka can count on his fingers the number of seconds it takes for the silence in the bathroom to be utterly destroyed by the music Suki puts on. 

Zuko arrives ten minutes after his last text, and the first person to the door when he knocks is Momo. He leaps from the couch to prowl loudly in front of it, nearly tripping Sokka as he tries to get it open.

Sokka finally manages to get a hand on the latch. He says to Momo, now meowing in a way that sounds _impatient,_ “Stop being weird.”

Momo just looks at him. 

Sighing, he wrenches open the door, and finds Zuko not at eye level like any sane person would expect, but on one knee. For a moment, Sokka panics, thinking he’s about to be proposed to while wearing _sweatpants._ But this is just casual, and there’s no little black box in sight, and Zuko’s not even looking at him.

Zuko is on his knees in front of Sokka, and it’s to talk to his damn _cat._

“Hi?” Sokka says, still trying to process the scene unfolding before him.

Zuko barely looks up. He offers Sokka a “Hey,” and turns his full attention back to Momo, cooing as he runs his hand along Momo’s back.

"How are you doing, little man?” Zuko asks Momo, his face lighting up with a smile Sokka has never seen before.

Momo lets Zuko scratch him under the chin, purring like a jet engine, and Sokka feels a sharp stab of jealousy shoot through him. Somehow, in the space of a handful of interactions, Zuko has charmed his way further into Momo’s good graces than Sokka has managed in a year of owning him.

“I don’t get it,” Sokka says. “He’s _never_ this nice to new people. Hell, he’s hardly this nice to _me.”_

“I guess he likes me.”

“I guess so,” Sokka says. Something flutters in his chest at the sight of them, at the idea of Momo’s approval, and he tries his best to flatten it before it can cause him any problems - or worse, show in his face.

Zuko gives Momo one last scratch behind the ear and stands, closing the door behind him as he steps into the apartment. He looks Sokka up and down, grey sweats and little else, and says, “I see you’ve dressed for the occasion.”

“If I’d known I was going to be upstaged by my cat, I would’ve left a little more to the imagination.”

Zuko laughs, and it comes out like it’s a surprise to him. He steps over Momo trying to wrap himself around his feet, and right into Sokka’s space. He says, “Sorry about that,” and his lips curl around the words in a way that makes Sokka want to put them to better use.

“Don’t be,” Sokka says, before he can even think about it. “Momo hated the last guy I brought home, and then he turned out to be a real bastard, so I think it’s a good thing that he likes you.”

Zuko’s expression changes. For a split second, he loses the suggestive curve of his smile, and the come-hither look disappears from his eyes as they go wide and soft. He fixes himself so quickly Sokka almost thinks he imagined it.

Then he’s taking another step toward Sokka, close enough now that Sokka can smell the jasmine and masculinity clinging to his skin, his hands flying to Sokka’s hips as he leans in to kiss him. And kiss him he does, hard and urgent, Sokka reaching for any part of him he can get a good hold on.

Zuko pulls back just as suddenly as he’d dived in. Sokka is breathless, feeling a shift in his blood flow even now. He blames the lack of oxygen to his brain for his next words.

 _“God,_ you’re good at that,” he says, and immediately hates himself for it, but then Zuko laughs, real and loud and absolutely unreasonable, and the feeling vanishes.

“I’ve got thirty minutes,” Zuko says, already kicking off his shoes. They tumble off in the direction of Sokka’s and Suki’s by the door, one nearly hitting Momo on his way back to the couch.

“Fuck, what is this, your lunch break?”

Zuko shrugs, “Yeah.”

It shouldn’t be sexy. It shouldn’t drive him crazy. It _shouldn’t._ But it is, and it does, so Sokka grabs him by the collar of his shirt to lock their mouths together and pull him into his room. Zuko nudges the door with his foot, his hands already occupied trying to undo the buttons of his shirt. 

The door closes with a slam, Zuko’s nudge clearly more than just that. The volume on Suki’s music raises pointedly, and Sokka has to break the kiss to laugh when he recognises the song.

Zuko blinks at him, and then hangs his head in embarrassed laughter as he catches it, too. “Is that -”

“Yeah,” Sokka says. “She’s Careless Whispering us.”

Zuko is still laughing as he struggles with the last of his buttons, and then his undershirt is gone too, and Sokka can finally get his hands on him. He pulls Zuko in by the waist, one hand firm at the small of his back, and kisses him, languid and consuming. Zuko presses close against him, solid and warm as he closes every gap between their bodies, and Sokka feels like the cover of a romance novel.

One of Zuko’s hands snakes around the back of Sokka’s head and tugs his hair free of its ponytail, effortless and clean. He gasps right into Zuko’s mouth, and Zuko pushes against him until the backs of his legs hit the edge of the bed. He sits, because Zuko keeps crowding him, and then Zuko is in his lap, knees on either side of Sokka’s hips. Zuko grinds down against him, whether accidentally or on purpose who knows, and Sokka sees stars.

Around them, the anthemic saxophone of Careless Whisper swells.

Between breathless kisses, Zuko confesses, “I really like this song.”

Sokka huffs out a small laugh, his hands finding Zuko’s thighs. “I can tell.”

“I know it uses she and her pronouns,” Zuko says, while Sokka busies himself with dragging his mouth along his collarbone, “but George was gay, and I just feel - _oh, do that again_ \- it’s like there’s something empowering about it, almost, even though it’s about - _ah_ \- heartbreak and -”

Sokka looks up at him. “Are you going to talk the whole time?”

Zuko laughs. “Maybe,” he says. “Why, is that a problem?”

Sokka swipes a stray lock of hair out of Zuko’s face. “I just think there are better things you could be doing with your mouth, that’s all.”

“Take off your stupid sweatpants and maybe I will.”

“You’re _on_ me,” Sokka protests, and when all Zuko does is shrug and give him a grin to beat the devil, he shoves him off.

 _Shove_ is a strong word. It’s more like _guiding,_ because Zuko moves without argument once Sokka’s hands start to steer him. He frees Sokka from the cage of his thighs - suddenly, Sokka understands why wild animals get trap happy - and lands elegantly on his back, sprawling the length of the bed.

Sokka looks at him, a fantasy come to life, and takes off his stupid sweatpants.

He throws them at Zuko’s head, and earns himself a short burst of that real laugh, shocked and unguarded.

“You _asshole,_ ” Zuko says. He sits up and grabs Sokka’s hand, pulling him down on top of him. Something comes alive under Sokka’s skin where Zuko’s fingers graze his wrist. He calls it lust and ignores the fact that it feels nothing like it.

Zuko kisses him, his mouth still in the shape of laughter, and the alive thing screams for his attention. Sokka buries it and hopes it won’t deafen him before they’re done.

* * *

When Sokka comes out of his room four loops of Careless Whisper later, Suki is cleaning the kitchen. She raises an eyebrow at him, an unasked question, as he drops into the single stool at the room divider they call a breakfast bar. 

He’s back in his sweats again, but now he’s got a tank top too. He doesn’t say anything about it, but he can tell by the way Suki looks at him that she _knows_ it’s to cover up the marks decorating his rib cage left by Zuko’s teeth. Suki always knows.

“That man’s tongue is the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Sokka announces. “Do we have any orange juice left?”

“A little,” Suki says, “but I haven’t gotten to the dishes yet so there’s nothing to put it in.”

Sokka thinks for a moment. “Is it still gross if I just drink whatever’s left in the carton?”

“Yes,” Suki sighs, but she’s already reaching into the fridge.

She hands him the carton, her nose scrunched in distaste as he takes a long swig. He drinks his fill, and when he’s done, he tells her, “I love you.”

“Whatever,” she says. 

“I’ll go shopping later,” he promises, but she’s already gone, her head buried in a cupboard looking for some chemical to tackle the beast of their kitchen with.

Zuko emerges fully dressed from Sokka’s room. The only evidence of any of their - _ahem_ \- activities are his bare feet and the few strands of his hair that didn’t make it out of the world’s quickest shower unharmed. Momo weaves between his feet as he makes his way toward Sokka, switching between crying and purring without any discernible pattern. Zuko grins down at him, trying not to trip, and before Sokka can stop himself he thinks, _a smile like that should be illegal._

Momo makes the clearest _meow_ Sokka has ever heard, loud and pronounced, and Zuko laughs. He bends down to scoop Momo into his arms, and Sokka is about to warn him against it, but then Momo _lets him._

“Why are you his favourite?” Sokka asks. He blames the rapid beat of his heart on jealousy. “You don’t even feed him.”

“Why am I what?” Suki reappears. Her eyes fall on Zuko, and her expression goes from befuddlement to impish delight. “Oh,” she says. “Hi there.”

“You must be Suki,” Zuko says. He meets her gaze, and his fingers go still under Momo’s chin.

“And you’re Zuko,” Suki replies, her smile all different shades of intimidating. “I’d shake your hand, but I know where it’s just been.”

He turns a shocking shade of pink. His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. It is a great universal injustice, Sokka thinks, that even flustered like this, he still looks good enough to eat.

To Sokka, Suki says, “Well done.”

Sokka glances between them, suddenly shy, and mutters, “Thanks.”

And then Zuko reaches for Sokka’s carton of orange juice, still open on the counter, and the colour drains from Suki’s face.

“Nevermind,” she says. “You’re both disgusting. I’m so glad I like women.”

“Toph does that every time she’s here,” Sokka reminds her. “And she _only_ likes women.”

Zuko shakes the carton over his mouth to get the very last drops, and one lands on his chin. He offers the empty carton back to Sokka, that same criminal smile on his face, and it’s not until after Sokka takes it and Zuko goes back to making baby sounds at Momo that Sokka realises he doesn’t even know there’s a bright orange blemish on his face.

That just won’t do, Sokka thinks. He can’t let him go back to work looking like that, he’ll be a laughing stock. Only one thing for it, he tells himself. 

He hops down from his stool and takes a step closer to Zuko, right up next to him so he can smell the mango and citrus soap from his shower. Zuko looks away from Momo to meet his eye, and there’s something - _vulnerable_ about his expression, almost. That’s not it, not quite, but it’s close.

Sokka reaches up and takes hold of Zuko's face by the point of his chin. Zuko looks at him, lips parted and eyes searching. Sokka wipes the juice from his chin with one smooth swipe of his thumb, and hears the word _intimate_ inside his head, clear as a bell.

He licks his thumb clean, and Zuko’s eyes fall to his mouth. They stay there for a long time.

Sokka clears his throat and looks away from him. His gaze drifts to the kitchen and finds Suki, her expression both grave and curious, watching them like a crime scene.

“Do you want anything to eat before you have to go?” Sokka asks Zuko. “I think we made muffins last night.”

“You _think_ you made muffins?”

“It’s hard to tell,” Sokka admits. “They’ve got all the ingredients, but they’re the wrong shape because we didn’t have the right tray for them. Also they taste really bad.”

Zuko looks at Suki for - something. Confirmation. Details. Help.

Suki just shrugs. “There was rum involved. I’ll put a couple in a bag for you.”

“In our defense,” Sokka says, “they make it look really easy on the Food Network.”

On his way out the door, Zuko trades Momo for a ziplock bag of maybe-muffins. Momo is not pleased. He climbs up Sokka’s arms to perch on his shoulder, and Sokka thinks more than once that he’s going to make a jump for it.

“I’ll see you later, little guy,” Zuko says. For a second, Sokka thinks he’s talking to _him,_ but then he sees the softness of Zuko’s eyes and the wonder in his smile, and he realises the _little guy_ is Momo. He almost feels disappointed.

Zuko turns that gentle smile on him then, and something complicated and uncomfortable happens in his chest.

“I’ll text you,” Zuko tells him, and Sokka swears it sounds like a promise. “I have more thoughts on George Michael I’m sure you’d like to hear.”

Sokka rolls his eyes. “Get out of my apartment, weirdo.”

Zuko grins at him, all sunshine and problems-on-purpose. He calls out to Suki, “It was nice meeting you!” and then he’s gone. 

Momo leaps from Sokka’s shoulder and scurries away in search of either trouble or a patch of sunlight to sleep in. Sokka joins Suki on the couch, where Generic Procedural Crime Show is still on. Possibly on again? It’s impossible to know for sure.

They argue, briefly, over who the killer is, and then Suki says, “I like him.”

“The grocer?” Sokka demands. “He’s _clearly_ cheating on his wife, that’s why he’s a suspect!”

“No, dumbass,” Suki says, shoving his shoulder. “Zuko.”

“Oh,” Sokka says. “I - yeah. Good. I think he’s sticking around a while.”

Wedged between two couch cushions, Sokka’s phone buzzes.

**[Zuko / / 13:54]** I don’t think you made muffins.

 **[Zuko / / 13:55]** I’m not even sure you made food.

Sokka snorts a laugh and lets Suki read over his shoulder.

Suki looks at him for a long moment. Sokka can’t help the feeling of being appraised.

She says, “I take it back. I don’t want you seeing him anymore. He’s bad for my ego.”

* * *

**[Zuko / / 16:55]** Do you know if Suki is working the bar tonight?

**[Sokka / / 16:57]** she is indeed

 **[Sokka / / 16:57]** pulling a beer as we speak

 **[Sokka / / 16:57]** why?

**[Zuko / / 16:59]** I suggested drinks after work and my coworkers would only go if the hot bartender was working.

 **[Zuko / / 17:00]** They’re both lesbians and I’ve seen Suki so I figured she’s probably who they have in mind.

**[Sokka / / 17:04]** i’ve got a new season of the great british bake off to get home to but suki says you can have my friends and family discount

**[Zuko / / 17:06]** Since when do bars have a friends and family discount?

**[Sokka / / 17:07]** they don’t but i get mean when i’m broke and suki has to live with me

**[Zuko / / 17:10]** You're sure you can't stay to hang out for a while?

 **[Zuko / / 17:10]** Mai doesn't really care but Ty Lee has been dying to meet you.

**[Sokka / / 17:11]** i'm not hooking up in the bison bathroom again zuko i see right through you

**[Zuko / / 17:12]** Worth a shot.

* * *

**[Zuko / / 16:47]** Are you free tonight?

**[Sokka / / 17:15]** you are the horniest person i've ever met

 **[Sokka / / 17:15]** and i’ve met me

**[Zuko / / 17:16]** Is that a yes?

**[Sokka / / 17:17]** yes

 **[Sokka / / 17:20]** bring pizza

**[Zuko / / 19:02]** Any preference?

**[Sokka / / 19:04]** meat lovers :)

**[Zuko / / 19:05]** You're insufferable.

 **[Zuko / / 19:09]** Do you want sprite or coke?

**[Sokka / / 19:10]** surprise me

Zuko doesn’t knock when he gets to Sokka’s place. Instead, he makes a series of awkward shuffling sounds outside the door that get Momo’s - and from there, Sokka’s - attention on the other side. Sokka, his hand on the latch to let him in, hears a vulgar and highly specific swear, and then the sound of something full and plastic hitting the floor.

He opens the door and Zuko is squatting, the pizza box offered upward like a godly sacrifice, trying to reach a fallen soda bottle before it rolls down the hall while still keeping a grasp on another one.

“One of these days,” Sokka says, “I’m going to open this door and you’ll be standing there like a normal person, and I won’t believe it’s even you.”

He takes the pizza box - big enough to feed a family of fourteen who all want seconds - so Zuko can chase after the bottle without worrying about ruining their meal. Momo dashes out the door to investigate, and ends up having to be chased himself.

When Zuko finally shuts the door behind him, his arms laden with sugary drinks and an attention-seeking cat, Sokka already has the table set in front of the television: the pizza box open and wafting the scent of processed meat, paper towel napkins, the good wine glasses, and a bottle of something to make the soda more interesting.

“Bon appetit,” Sokka says. He spreads his arms in a _ta-da_ motion, and Zuko beams at him.

“You really pulled out all the stops,” Zuko says. Momo squirms in his hold, reminding Zuko he’s there, as if he’d forget. “It almost makes me forget the pizza is in a cardboard box.”

“Only the best for you, dear,” Sokka grins. 

He extends his hands, and Zuko gives him the Coke.

“I meant Momo,” Sokka frowns, setting the bottle down on the table.

Zuko pouts. “I’m not done with him yet.”

Sokka drops like a stone onto the couch. “Sometimes I think you only sleep with me to get closer to my cat.”

“I sleep with you because I think you’re hot,” Zuko says, but he doesn’t look away from Momo, who has one of his fingers trapped between his paws. “I sleep with you _here_ because I like your cat.”

“Colour me flattered,” Sokka says. “If you put him down so we can eat, I’ll let you pick whatever you want to watch on Netflix.”

“Is Suki home?” Zuko is still standing, his nose buried in the fur of Momo’s belly, but at least he looks at Sokka this time.

“Yeah, but she’s leaving soon. She has a date. One of the Kyoshi ladies, I think. She keeps coming out to ask me about shoes.”

Zuko calls, “Hi, Suki!”

From her room, through a gap in the mostly-closed door, comes Suki’s voice. “HI, ZUKO! STOP HOGGING MY CAT!”

Zuko turns bright red. He lets Momo down, and he streaks across the room into Suki’s. Zuko takes his spot next to Sokka on the couch and, reaching forward to take a slice of comically sized pizza, says, “Stop laughing at me.”

“I’m not laughing!” Sokka lies.

Zuko snatches the remote from Sokka’s hand. He talks about what he’s about to put on while he’s searching for it, explaining the intricacies of the plot and character arcs like he’s writing an essay, and Sokka is entranced by him. 

There’s so much passion in his voice, so much conviction, that Sokka gets lost in it. Zuko isn’t even looking at him, his eyes trained on the screen as he fiddles with the tiny buttons on the controller, but that’s hardly a bad thing. It means Sokka can look at him without self-consciousness, and just really _stare._

He almost forgets to eat the pizza in his hand until the cheese starts to slide off the base and he nearly ends up with a burned lap. He looks away from Zuko then, to rescue it, and catches sight of the TV in his peripheral vision.

 _“Megamind?”_ he balks. _“That’s_ your cinematic masterpiece?”

Zuko blinks at him. “What did you think I was talking about when I said _hero corruption arc?_ ”

Heat floods Sokka’s cheeks as he realises, actually, he wasn’t listening. He wasn’t paying attention to the words, so much as he was paying attention to the mouth saying them.

“You’ve got weird taste, man,” Sokka tells him.

Zuko presses play. “Well, what does that say about you?”

His mouth now stuffed with cheese and crust and sausage, Sokka smiles with his gums. “Exception to the rule.”

Suki comes out halfway through the movie, Momo on her heels, for the final verdict on her outfit. 

“Is the double denim too much?” Her dark jeans are cuffed at the ankle to make way for a short wedge sandal, and a matching denim jacket hangs loose and oversized on her shoulders over a crop top Sokka thinks is probably actually just lingerie.

“Roll the sleeves,” Sokka says, so she does. Then, “Is it a _date_ or is it just a date? What’s the goal for tonight?”

“As awkward a morning bathroom encounter as I can make for you,” Suki says.

“I think you’re good, then.”

Suki smiles like the sun. She rifles through her purse for a moment, before pulling out and applying a thick coat of shiny lip gloss.

She’s reaching for the door and halfway through blowing Momo a goodbye kiss when Zuko says, “Wait.”

She looks at him, frowning.

“Change the earrings,” he says. “Do you have any of the little hoopy ones?”

Her eyes light up. She runs back to her room and emerges a moment later, adjusting a small circle of gold in her earlobe. She catches her reflection in a big spoon in the kitchen, and shoots a wicked grin at Sokka.

“Keep this one,” she says, and presses a kiss to the top of Zuko’s head on her way past. “He’s getting this whole apartment laid tonight.”

Zuko smiles, shy and flushed pink. Something keen and pleasant trickles down Sokka’s spine. It feels monumental, witnessing that easy camaraderie, and he doesn’t know where or when it started. Suki drifts away, unaffected and unaware of the dangerous and broiling thing welling up in his chest, out the door.

“Text me when you’re in the cab home!” Sokka calls. He works hard to make sure his voice doesn’t waver.

“I will be busy in the cab home!” she calls back, and then she’s gone.

“Gross,” Sokka says. “Good for her.”

* * *

It takes the entire movie to finish the pizza. The final slice disappears as the credits roll, and Sokka feels full to bursting. He drains the last of his drink - Coke and _something,_ but who knows what at this point - and collapses against the couch cushions.

Zuko belches loudly as he falls back beside him, and it hurts a little to laugh at him.

“In hindsight,” Zuko says, “I probably should’ve gotten a smaller size.”

“Hey,” Sokka says. “Go big or go home, right?”

“I think I should’ve gone home.”

Before he can think any better of it, Sokka says, “I don’t want you to go home.”

Zuko looks at him, his eyes soft and impossible, and Sokka doesn’t understand the look on his face. 

“You’ve got sauce on your face,” Zuko says. Sokka raises a hand to wipe at his mouth, but Zuko stops him. “Let me,” he says, and presses his lips to the corner of Sokka’s mouth.

 _Oh,_ Sokka thinks, and he can’t help the flutter of his eyes closing as Zuko places a hand at his jaw. Zuko kisses him properly now, pretense be damned, and for a moment it feels too tender to be them.

And then Sokka turns toward him, changing the angle of his head to deepen the kiss, and Zuko smiles wolfishly into all of it, and the mildness is gone.

Zuko tastes like spicy pepperoni and sugar-spiked liquor, and whether he intends it or not, he makes Sokka’s head swim. Zuko’s intense about everything, but never so acutely as when they’re together like this, teasing and biting and moving against each other. 

There’s something _right_ about it, Sokka thinks, as Zuko’s touch slides up the inside of his thigh.

Or maybe he’s just tipsy and horny, and Zuko’s just good with his hands.

Sokka’s body catches up with his mind and racing heart. He shifts upward, pulling his legs up onto the couch. Zuko has to tilt his head up and Sokka has to crane his neck downward to keep their lips sealed, and it’s awkward and a little uncomfortable, but they do it, and Sokka’s heart races further. 

He breaks the kiss to breathe, his eyes still closed, and all there is in the world is Zuko’s hands on him and the huff of Zuko’s laugh against his lips. Sokka hitches up one knee, ready to cross it over Zuko’s lap, and -

Zuko jerks away from him like he’s been shocked. Sokka’s eyes snap open to look at him.

“What’s -” Sokka follows Zuko’s gaze to his lap. “Momo!”

Sokka rocks back onto his heels and feels cold in the places Zuko’s hands leave him. Momo is a purring mound of white fur in Zuko’s lap, kneading his thighs to curl up there. 

“C’mon, man,” Sokka says, holding Momo’s little head in the palm of his hand, “you’re in my spot.”

Zuko is laughing now, that real, surprised laugh that lights up Sokka’s insides, and all the tension is sapped from the room. He digs his hands under Momo to lift him, but all that happens is Momo’s middle is slightly raised while the rest of him stays fused with Zuko’s lap.

“Cat physics,” Zuko says, stunned.

Sokka presses his forehead to Zuko’s shoulder and sighs. “I can’t believe this. I’m being cockblocked by my _cat._ ”

Zuko laughs again, a short sound, and Sokka feels the rumble of it in his chest. They sit there staring at the traitorous Momo, Sokka’s head on Zuko’s shoulder and Zuko’s hand combing through fur, for a long time, until Sokka’s eyelids start to droop.

He lifts his head to yawn, and when he opens his eyes, Zuko is looking at him the same way he looks at Momo.

Sokka rubs a hand down his face. “Can we - I don’t know. I kind of just want to take a nap.”

Zuko’s gaze drops to Sokka’s mouth for a second, then flies back up to his eyes. It’s subtle, but Sokka catches it. He doesn’t know what it means.

Sokka yawns again, and the corners of Zuko’s mouth tick up into half a smile. He says, “That sounds like a good idea.”

So Sokka drags himself to his feet and stumbles through the motions of clearing away the table, leaving glasses in the sink and empty vessels somewhere near the recycling bin. He’s a little slow in all his movements, drowsy and uncoordinated, and his mind is sluggish enough that he makes it to his bedroom door before he notices he’s alone.

“Hey,” he says, casting a look over his shoulder to Zuko, still on the couch. “Are you coming?”

Zuko looks up, and his eyes seem a little brighter. Maybe it’s a trick of the light. “I didn’t realise I was invited.”

Sokka just looks at him. “You think I’m not going to wake up wanting to burn off all these new calories?”

In the time it takes for Zuko to join him, Sokka slips out of his jeans and under the covers of his bed. His t-shirt is fine to sleep in, he decides - and it’s going to end up on the floor later anyway.

He switches on the bedside lamp in time to see Zuko press the door closed with his back, his hands busy carrying Momo. Sokka raises an eyebrow at him, and the golden glow of the lamp colours the apologetic blush in his cheeks like a sunset.

“He wouldn’t let me go,” Zuko explains, and Sokka feels like his chest might crack open. Zuko sets Momo down on the bed so he can strip out of his jeans and his button-down, and then he slides in next to Sokka.

When Sokka shuts the light off, and Zuko wraps an arm around his waist and shuffles close enough that it stops being “lying next to each other” and starts being “cuddling”, and Momo curls up at their feet, and Sokka feels an overwhelming urge to run his fingers through Zuko’s hair - _that’s_ when Sokka starts to realise that this might maybe fall just slightly outside the bounds of _casual._

But it’s nice, and it’s comfortable, and he’s this close to falling asleep already, so he doesn’t say a single word.

(It’s not a nap. 

Sokka wakes, for a moment, when Suki and her date crash through the front door and giggle all the way into her room, but Zuko doesn’t stir. He’s got an arm still slung across Sokka’s body, protective and possessive, and his fingers tangled in the fabric of his t-shirt, and Sokka doesn’t wake him. 

All Sokka does is roll over into that embrace and bury his face in Zuko’s chest and fall back asleep in a second.

And then, when Sokka’s alarm wakes them both a few hours later, he pulls Zuko into the shower with him and makes up for it.)

* * *

The first time Sokka goes to Zuko’s apartment - Suki has just about every female martial artist in the country over to watch the taekwondo world championships, it’s a damn zoo - he gets lost. Twice.

He’s forty-five minutes late already, and when he knocks, a woman made of pursed lips and sharp angles answers the door. She looks elegant and expensive the same way a skyscraper does. Or a cache of medieval weaponry.

“Oh,” Sokka says, digging into his pocket to find the map on his phone. “I must have the wrong place, sorry -”

She looks him up and down, her eyes narrowed in a way that feels violent and practiced, and her smirk turns distasteful. Sokka risks a glance down at himself, at his torn up jeans - not distressed, just torn - and the Madonna t-shirt he’s pretty sure actually belongs to Katara, and thinks she might have a point. The bag in his hand feels heavier when her eyes land on it.

“Zuzu,” the woman calls into the apartment, “your dinner’s here.”

“I didn’t order -” Zuko appears in the doorway, bitter frustration in his expression as he looks at the woman. 

His eyes fall on Sokka, though, and his face clears into a light-pollution smile.

“Sokka,” he says, breezy and winsome, and something tugs inside Sokka’s chest when Zuko reaches for his hand to pull him inside. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

“I couldn’t find the building,” Sokka confesses. He ducks his head to stare at his shoes, partly out of embarrassment and partly so he doesn’t have to see that look on Zuko’s face.

The woman clears her throat, the door closing behind her with a satisfying _click._ Sokka looks up, fully intending to look at her, but his eyes get caught on the sheer size of this place. His and Suki’s entire apartment would fit into this one room, easily. Zuko’s hand is still on his wrist.

Zuko sighs. “Azula, this is Sokka. Sokka, my sister Azula.”

Sokka looks at her, and - yeah, actually, he does see the resemblance. The shape of her nose is the same, and she has Zuko’s sunlight-through-whiskey brown eyes, though hers look more likely to leave a nasty hangover in their wake.

“Pleasure,” Azula says.

Sokka smiles. He offers a little wave with his bag hand, and Zuko drops his hold on his other one. Azula scoffs, and shares a look with Zuko that’s probably meaningful but looks to Sokka like it’s mostly just contempt, and struts past them toward the gleaming kitchen on the other side of the room.

“She’s leaving soon, I swear,” Zuko whispers. “What’s in the bag?”

“Oh!” Sokka says. “After I got lost the first time I ended up near the Flying Bison? Suki’s usually the only one I let make my drinks in there because no one else knows how to mix a damn cocktail, but she’s not working tonight obviously, so I had to settle for Haru and I mean, sure, he can stir some shit around in a mixer, but he doesn’t have that same instinct for it that Suki has, you know? You can give Suki a colour or a flavour - she’s done moods before, too, I got really sad drunk once because she wanted to see if she could do it - and she’ll get you blacked out in, like, three drinks, and -”

Sokka realises, all of a sudden, that he’s the only one talking. Zuko is just standing there taking it, a good natured smile on his face, acting like he doesn’t mind that Sokka has said more words in the last minute than he probably has all day.

“- and you don’t care about any of this. Sorry. I got take-out cocktails. That’s what’s in the bag.”

“Anything good?” Zuko reaches for the bag to take a peek, herding Sokka towards the sophisticated living area in the middle of the room. A shockingly angular and monochrome couch - Sokka doesn’t even want to call it that, there must be a better word for something like this - and two matching armchairs surround a coffee table, all of them turned toward a wide TV mounted over an actual fireplace. It’s electric, because this is still an apartment, but it looks like it might’ve been a real wood fire at some point.

Zuko looks up at Sokka then, as they sit on the runway model of a couch, and says, “I do, by the way.”

“You do what?”

 _“Care,”_ Zuko says. “It’s your life, of course I care.”

“I -” Sokka doesn’t know what to say. He is rarely speechless - this might, in fact, be the first recorded case - but right now, he doesn’t have a word in his head. “Sure, okay.”

“Sokka,” Zuko says, a laugh in his voice, but only barely. “You know -” 

He doesn’t get to tell Sokka what exactly it is that he knows, though, because Azula breezes back into the room, slipping a bottle of wine into her purse.

“I’m out,” she says. “Don’t leave any stains on my couch, the man who made it is dead.”

“Where are you going?” Zuko asks.

“I told you,” she says. “I’m meeting Ty Lee for her - whatever it is. The thing she was talking about. I’m staying with her and Mai tonight. Stay out of my room.”

With that, and only that, she’s gone. The slam of the door behind her echoes for a long time.

“Confession,” Sokka says, still watching the door. “I think your sister scares me.”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” Zuko says. “It’ll go straight to her head.”

He reaches into the bag at Sokka’s feet and pulls out a reusable bottle of something swirling and red. “What did you say this was?”

“Haru said it was a Shirley Temple, but if Shirley Temple was a middle-aged stripper instead of a beloved child star.”

"I'm familiar," Zuko says, and Sokka remembers a drink the same colour on a bartop a month and a half ago.

He sets the bottle on the coffee table - it looks high end enough that Sokka thinks it should probably be called something else, like espresso table or afternoon high tea with a duchess table - and pulls a second bottle from the bag. This one is a blue so vibrant it seems to glow.

“What’s this one?”

“That one’s mine,” Sokka says. “I told Haru to make me something from a sci-fi movie that wouldn’t taste like ass, and he told me to just pick something from the menu like a normal person, so it’s just a - I think he called it a Midnight Kiss. Guess he figured out my plans for the night.”

Zuko laughs. It’s not quite real, that laugh, but it’s not the other one either, the one that’s pure seduction and magnetism. It’s something caught in the middle, like Zuko can’t decide who to be in that moment: his honest, awkward self, or the version that oozes sex but knows it’s a performance.

Sokka unscrews the top of his bright blue monstrosity and takes a sip. It tastes like the word _electrolyte,_ even though Sokka knows that’s not what it means. 

(He’s pretty sure. Okay, he’s guessing. Whatever.)

He takes a longer pull from the bottle, and he can barely taste it this time, all of his focus stolen away by the feeling of Zuko’s eyes on his throat as he swallows. Zuko holds his eye for a split second when Sokka looks at him, then casts his gaze into his lap and shakes his head like he’s been caught stealing from the cookie jar.

Zuko takes an experimental sip of his own drink and makes a small sound of appreciation. 

“This is nice,” he says, and nearly chokes on more of it when Sokka sticks his tongue out at him.

“Am I blue?” Sokka asks. Zuko just rolls his eyes and nudges his shoulder with his free hand.

Sokka nearly dyes half the couch Midnight Kiss blue, hurrying to put his bottle down before he has a real reason to be afraid of Azula. “Hey, watch it!” 

Zuko draws his hand back from Sokka’s shoulder and sets his own drink on the table. His expression is casual as anything, but his movements have a kind of precision and _purpose_ to them.

“There’s glasses in the kitchen,” Zuko says, but doesn’t make any effort to get up. “Maybe even some of those little umbrellas.”

Sokka is very aware, suddenly, of how close they’re sitting. It’s not that he wasn’t aware before, not really, because he’s never unaware of Zuko when they’re in the same room - in the same building, sometimes, but he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to admit that to himself - but this is something else. 

The space between them, barely more than a few inches, feels charged. That’s not unusual, Sokka supposes, given the nature of their relationship, but this feels...different. 

Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve never done this here in Zuko’s apartment, maybe it’s the fact that Sokka just met Zuko’s sister for the first time, maybe it’s the fact that they haven’t had a place truly just to themselves since before Zuko met Suki.

Or maybe it’s the fact that Sokka brought Zuko a bottle of the same concoction he’d been drinking the night they met, and can’t honestly tell if it was a conscious choice.

Whatever it is, it feels like gravity. 

That’s the best way to describe the sensation in Sokka’s chest when his eyes meet Zuko’s. It’s gravity, it’s a law of physics, it’s the natural order of the universe - it’s instinct, really, when Sokka meets Zuko in the middle of those few inches between them.

The first kiss could almost be an accident, a strange little test of something they’ve done a hundred times before, but there is no mistaking the starving intent of the second. 

Zuko knows the lay of this land better than him, so Sokka lets himself be directed again, crowded into the corner of the couch by Zuko’s body hovering over him and the insistent hands sneaking up the front of his shirt. Sokka kisses him like it’s a vocation.

On any other piece of furniture, Sokka would already be sunk into cushions and about to complain about his neck cramping, but the rigid angles and unyielding padding of this couch hold him up. It’s probably not comfortable for a Law and Order marathon, he figures, but damn if it’s not practical right now. Is that what the designer had in mind? Make-out efficiency? Is that something he should be grading furniture on now?

“Sokka,” Zuko says, a ghost on his lips, “why can I hear you thinking?”

“I’m -” Sokka starts, but he doesn’t finish, because Zuko’s teeth scrape along his jaw and he forgets every thought he’s ever had in his life.

And then Zuko kisses him, hard and desperate and ruining, and he’ll be surprised if he ever has another thought again.

Zuko shifts their position, not breaking the seal of their lips even once, until Sokka has one leg up on the couch being supported by Zuko’s hand on his thigh and the other hanging off the edge, and Zuko is most of the way into Sokka’s lap, boxing him oh-so voluntarily into the corner of the couch. Sokka reaches for him, grasping great bundles of clean pressed shirt in a desperate attempt to get even an inch of bare skin under his fingertips.

One of Sokka’s hands comes up to cup the side of Zuko’s face, to will the impossibility of _closer_ into stubborn existence, and Zuko flinches. It passes in a split second and he doesn’t even break the kiss, but Sokka notices, and it suddenly feels slightly wrong to kiss him like this. Sokka wants to kiss him with care and kindness, not this tear-your-clothes-off animalism.

That’s not something he’s acknowledged this head-on before. He’s thought of it fleetingly, in the breaths between joke and laughter, but the idea has never stuck around long enough for him to consider it like this. But now, with Zuko gripping him at the hip and opening his mouth to him, he’s _considering._

So he does it. He holds Zuko’s face in both hands and kisses him slowly, gently, until Zuko sighs against his lips and melts into him, their bodies pressed together everywhere physics allows. Sokka feels the barely-there flutter of Zuko’s eyelashes on his cheekbone just before he pulls out of the kiss.

Sokka sees Zuko’s parted lips and pinched brow and thinks he’s going to say something, but he doesn’t. He just looks at Sokka, his eyes careful and vulnerable, and Sokka feels -

He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he feels, only that it’s not _casual,_ and he doesn’t want it to stop.

“How’d you get this scar, Zuko?” he asks, and his voice is a croak. He swipes his thumb along the edge of it, right where the soft skin of his cheek becomes red and warped.

Zuko closes his eyes, and it’s hard to tell if it’s in reaction to Sokka’s touch or his question. His hand moves from Sokka’s hip to wrap around the wrist of that hand, and Sokka thinks he’s going to take it away but he doesn’t. Zuko holds it there, his fingers pressed to the point of Sokka’s pulse, and when he opens his eyes again after a long moment, they’re miserable. Sokka wants to kiss his cheeks.

“It’s not a good story,” Zuko says. “You probably don’t want to hear this.”

“I don’t mind,” Sokka tells him. “It’s your life, it’s - it’s _you,_ of course I want to hear it.”

Zuko smiles, tiny and shaky and self-deprecating. “I got it from my father.”

Sokka’s thumb stills on his cheek, and when Zuko sits up properly, Sokka goes with him. He doesn’t drop his hand from Zuko’s face, and Zuko doesn’t let go of his wrist.

“What happened?” Sokka asks, and tries not to let any of his boiling blood into his voice. It’s a very close thing.

“My father, he - he wasn’t a great guy,” Zuko says. “He wasn’t, you know, _violent._ I mean, he was, a couple of times, but it was mostly psychological stuff. He used to make me and Azula compete against each other for everything, but she always won, because she was his favourite. I always thought if I could be better than her just once, everything would be fine and he’d stop treating me like he didn’t want me. But then we were at this family thing when I was thirteen, and I told him I was gay.”

Sokka’s blood turns to ice. He takes his other hand from Zuko’s face and tries to hide the fist he makes with it under his leg.

Zuko continues, “It was just the two of us in the room, my grandfather’s old study, and he - he told me he’d have me fixed. Send me away to one of those camps and they’d make me normal, or - no, _honorable_ is the word he used. When I said I wasn’t broken, he told me not to disrespect him with backtalk. Then he dragged me to the floor and pushed my face into the fireplace.”

He says it so matter of fact, so clinically, that Sokka almost doesn’t have a reaction. Almost.

“I’ll kill him,” Sokka says, a harsh whisper, and it surprises them both. His voice drips with venom, and he has to breathe through it for a second before he says, “Zuko, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Zuko says, and Sokka can’t believe him. 

“It’s not,” he insists. “He - his own _son._ I can’t - what happened then?”

“My uncle found me,” Zuko says. “He heard me scream, and I could hear him coming up the stairs even with the fire in my ear. He burst in and pulled my father off me, and on the drive to the hospital he asked me why my father did what he did. I thought, _things can’t get any worse,_ so I told him.”

Sokka’s heart leaps into his throat, and he can barely breathe around it. 

“He called my father every name under the sun, and then he told me he loved me,” Zuko says. “He put all my medical expenses on his insurance, and I moved out of my hospital bed into his spare room. Azula moved in when my father died three years later. She told me she was a lesbian two days after she moved in. We lived with Uncle Iroh until she was eighteen and she could finally use the fortune our father left her to get her own place. She couldn’t be left on her own, so I went with her.”

“That’s,” Sokka says, after a long stretch of stunned silence. For the second time tonight, he’s struggling to find words. “That’s horrible, Zuko.”

He can’t come up with anything better than that, and he hates himself for it. What is there to say to something like that? There are no words to make something like that better. 

So Sokka thinks, _to hell with words,_ and throws his arms around Zuko. He pulls him close, tight against his chest, and tries to take deep, even breaths. The angle is awkward, and he takes Zuko by surprise, and this is the first time he’s ever held Zuko like this without someone’s name being moaned, but Zuko buries his face in the crook of his neck and wraps his arms around Sokka’s waist.

Zuko squeezes, once, and all Sokka can say is, “I wish that never happened to you, Zuko. I wish you never had to go through that.”

Zuko doesn’t say anything. He burrows deeper into Sokka’s embrace, his hands working their way under his shirt when they get tangled in the fabric at the hem.

They stay like that for an age.

“I’ve been in therapy for it,” Zuko says, half muffled by Sokka’s shoulder. “I mean, I’m still in therapy, but I - I couldn’t talk about it for a long time. To anyone. Except for Uncle, because he was there for it, but no one else. It, um, scares people off, usually.”

“You mean guys,” Sokka says. “Boyfriends.”

“Yeah.” There’s a note of something like fear in his voice, and Sokka’s heart aches.

“Good thing I’m not your boyfriend, then, I guess,” he jokes, and almost lets out a sigh of relief when Zuko actually laughs.

Zuko pulls out of the hug, and Sokka is a little sad to let him go. He’s got a bleary, sheepish kind of smile, though, and Sokka is never sad to see that.

“Thank you,” he says.

Sokka raises an eyebrow at him. “For what?”

“For not being my boyfriend.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the response to this silly little fic has been INCREDIBLE!!!!!!!! 5k hits????? are you all insane???????????? im losing my mind about it every second of the day thank you SO MUCH for every comment and kudos and hit on this fic, you make me so happy and i love you all individually and specifically. 💖💖💖
> 
> eagle eyed readers will notice ive changed the chapter count from /3 to /? nd this is because 1) i am an absolute glutton for punishment and attention and 2) i had a special extra bonus idea that my brain wont get rid of so i had to change some things in my outline. thanks for reading!!!! 
> 
> [variety show host voice] stick around we've got a great amount of gay nonsense coming up next!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoutout to tumblr user dreamrena for guessing some of the plot of this chapter from my frustrated vagueposting about it!!
> 
> recommended listening for this chapter:  
> house key by scott helman  
> lover by taylor swift

Sokka is still trying to figure out which pocket he put his keys in when Suki opens the building door. She holds it open and he winks a thank you to her.

Into the phone in the hand not stuck in his jeans, he asks, “So why didn’t you tell _him_ that?”

On the other end of the line, he can hear Zuko rolling his eyes. “Have you never worked food service? He would’ve gone over my head to complain. Probably wouldn’t stop until I was fired.”

“Zuko,” Sokka says, stopping at the wall of mailboxes, “your boss is your _uncle._ You basically work on a volunteer basis. You could probably call it charity and get a tax write-off.”

Suki pulls her keys out from her jacket again and frowns at them. She pats her jacket pockets for a moment, and frowns deeper.

“I don’t have it,” she says. “I think I gave it to you last time.”

Sokka wedges his phone between his shoulder and his face. While he fishes through his pockets, Zuko says, “ _He_ didn’t know that. It’s not like there’s a sign up saying _don’t bother, he’s the owner’s favourite._ Uncle still would’ve had to side with him, even if it was just to keep him from making a scene.”

His left side is empty, but the phone is making the right side hard to search. 

“Hold on a sec,” Sokka says. “I’m giving you to Suki.”

“Good, maybe she’ll have something useful to contribute.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that for the sake of preserving the benefits part of this friendship.”

He hands the phone over to Suki to dig in earnest.

Suki says, “What’s up, duckie?” and Sokka has to pause for a moment to look at her, eyebrows raised to high heaven. She ignores him and leans against the wall while Zuko talks, so he goes back to rifling through his clothes.

Finally, _finally,_ he finds the key, and cracks their mail slot open. Inside are a couple of flyers, a letter from the bank addressed to Suki, a bill that’s supposed to go to their landlord, and something thick and shimmering silver.

He locks the box again, and Suki says, “This guy sounds like an asshole. Do you have any personal information on him? I could get the Warriors to pay him a visit sometime.”

Suki laughs at whatever Zuko says, and her smile is wide and genuine, so Sokka lets her keep the phone while they traverse the stairs. It shouldn’t warm his heart to see her smile like that, an obvious show of her fondness for Zuko, but it _does._ It makes him all shades of warm and fuzzy, and he can’t stand it. First Momo and now Suki - he’s running out of best friends for Zuko to steal from him.

Three flights of stairs with only one side of a conversation to keep him company later, Sokka is unlocking the door of their apartment. He drops the mail on a surface Momo can’t reach.

“Yeah, we just got home,” Suki says. She waits a moment, listening, and turns to Sokka. “Is Zuko’s phone charger here?”

“Give me the groceries,” Sokka tells her, and takes the bag from her, “it’s probably in my room if it's here.”

Suki drifts into his room to search, phone still in her hand. Even with his head half in the fridge to put away their groceries, he can hear her laughter. That same warm feeling swells up inside him again.

She wanders back out again a couple of minutes later, rolling her eyes at something Zuko’s saying. Momo swats at the charger cable dangling from her free hand. Suki pulls it up out of his reach and leaves it on the counter.

“You can come pick it up whenever,” she says. “I’m working tonight but I’m sure Sokka would _love_ to see you. You know, biblically, or whatever.”

Sokka glares at her. She’s not _wrong,_ but it’s the principle of the thing.

“Give me my phone,” Sokka says. “Go open your mail, you heathen.”

Suki laughs, and he can’t tell if it’s at him or something Zuko says on the other end of the line. She says, “Okay, I’m giving you back to Loverboy, try not to miss me too much. Yeah. Yes. No, shut up, okay - bye, Zuko.”

She swaps the phone for the stack of mail Sokka slides across the breakfast bar/island/countertop/room divider toward her. She takes it with her and drifts off to sit on the couch and peruse.

Sokka presses the phone to his ear. “Hi again.”

“Hi,” Zuko says, and he sounds a little out of breath. Sokka can’t help but wonder what exactly he and Suki were talking about, and whether or not he’s got that sweet little blush in his cheeks.

“So?” Sokka asks. “Pick up or delivery?”

“I’m working ‘til closing,” Zuko says, “so I can come by when I’m done, if that works?”

“Yeah, that sounds good. When’s closing? I can do dinner.”

“You mean order Chinese food?”

“Yes, I mean order Chinese food,” Sokka sighs. “If you want a home-cooked meal, leave your charger in someone else’s life.”

Zuko laughs. “We close at seven. Don’t open the fortune cookies before I get there.”

“Buzzkill.”

“It’s not fun if we don’t do it together!”

“We already do plenty of _fun things_ together.” Sokka catches Suki’s eye. She pretends to gag. Or actually gags. Hard to tell.

 _“Sokka,”_ Zuko warns, but there’s almost no force in it. 

Sokka misses the next thing he says over the sound of Suki’s frantic envelope tearing and subsequent paper waving. Her eyes are wide and giddy, and her smile could power a rocket.

“I think I have to go,” Sokka says. “I’ll see you later?”

“Oh,” Zuko says, and something twinges in Sokka’s chest at his tone. “Yeah, okay. I’ll see you later.”

“Looking forward to it,” Sokka says, because he’s not emotionally equipped to deal with almost-sad Zuko. Also because he means it. 

Suki’s waving gets more wild, and then she’s tumbling off the couch to join him at the counter. He gestures to the phone, like she cares, and barely catches Zuko’s - more sprightly - call of, “Bye, Sokka.”

The line goes dead in his ear before he can answer, so he sets the phone down on the counter.

“What?” he asks Suki’s vibrating form.

She shoves something into his face. “It’s Yue’s wedding!”

He rears back so he can take the paper. It’s thick, almost like card, and shines with spidery silver lettering. The date at the bottom is three weeks away.

“Holy shit,” Sokka says. “It’s so soon.”

“Of course it’s soon,” Suki says. “They’re moving to Iceland in, like, a month and a half.”

Sokka looks at her. “They are?”

Suki sighs. “Why am I better friends with your ex-girlfriend than you are? This kind of thing is exactly why she broke up with you.”

“No,” Sokka says, “she broke up with me because she’s a lesbian. She broke up with _you_ because -”

“Semantics,” Suki shrugs. Then, at a pitch that would deafen a bat, “Put it on the fridge!”

Sokka uses their one and only fridge magnet - a photo of Katara and Aang the day they moved in together that Sokka had made as a joke but sometimes makes him cry - to pin the invitation at eye level.

He steps back to admire it. “I can’t believe they actually got a Saturday. I thought that was supposed to be impossible.”

“You watch too many romantic comedies.”

“Maybe you don’t watch enough.”

Sokka pulls his eyes away from the fridge at the faint sound of furious thumbs across a phone screen. Suki has her phone out, and she’s texting at a speed that makes Sokka think she’s trying to start a fire by friction.

She glances up at him, and answers his question before he asks it. “I’m getting it off work. Also finding out Katara’s schedule for the week so we can go shopping. Also tweeting. Finish putting away the groceries, I have to strategize.”

She takes a bag of tortilla chips from the bag on the counter and wanders away into her room, still typing with one hand. Momo follows her, purring against her calf as she walks.

* * *

Ten days before the wedding, Sokka rolls onto his side and props his head up on an elbow. He watches Zuko for a moment - the rapid up-and-down of his chest in time with deep breaths, the self-conscious tug of sheets over his waist like Sokka hasn’t _just_ been for a visit south of the border, the goofy blissed-out smile - and thinks, _here goes nothing._

He asks, breezy as anything, “Are you doing anything next weekend?”

Zuko looks at him. “Are you trying to plan a hookup a week and a half in advance? Is that what’s happening here?”

Sokka laughs, and shoves his shoulder. If his hand lingers there a little longer than necessary, that’s his business.

“No,” he says, “my ex-girlfriend, who is also Suki’s ex-girlfriend, is getting married.”

“That sounds . . . straightforward,” Zuko frowns. Then, and Sokka swears he can see the lightbulb, “Do you need a date? Are you doing a scheme? I don’t know if I’m up for a scheme.”

Sokka laughs again. “You’re such a weirdo. No, I need a catsitter.”

Something too-fast and complicated happens to Zuko’s expression. It twists and flashes a dozen different directions, and in the end, he doesn’t say anything.

“I’d ask Toph,” Sokka says, because he loves to dig a hole, “but she’s actually my plus one. She has a theory that I’m some kind of sapphic gateway boyfriend and she wants to meet Yue so she can prove it. Or, at least, test it. Personally I don’t know how much more proof she needs since Yue is marrying a woman, but I can’t say no to the scientific method.”

“You’re -” Zuko’s brow scrunches, and Sokka thinks he sees him glance down at his hands to count. “What?”

“You would not _believe_ how many people realise they’re into women after dating me,” Sokka says. “So are you free next weekend?”

“To catsit?” Zuko is still gaping at him.

“Yeah,” Sokka says. “I mean, Momo clearly likes you, and I trust you not to rob us while we’re gone, and you already know where everything is and - and we can pay you, too, obviously -”

“No,” Zuko says, rushed and urgent. “I mean, I’ll do it, but - no, I don’t want your money. Don’t be stupid. It’s a weekend hanging out with your cat. I already like him more than I like most people.”

“I - are you sure?”

“Sokka,” Zuko says, and all his edges seem softer somehow, “I don’t want any money. You can just - I don’t know. You don’t have to do anything. I’m happy to help.”

Sokka can’t think of anything to say. How come Zuko gets to be kind _and_ stupid hot? That’s just unreasonable. There must be a manager he can talk to.

“Thanks, Zuko,” he says, eventually. He rolls onto his back and feels - heavy. Like he’s fusing with the mattress. Like he’s melting, and the heat of Zuko’s body next to him isn’t doing the ice caps any favours.

“Honestly, you’re kind of doing me a favour,” Zuko says. “Azula’s been dropping hints about wanting our place to herself for a couple of days. Well, I say hints - she told me yesterday that I should go on vacation because she’s getting sick of looking at me.”

“You know you can always just hang out here,” Sokka says. 

He doesn’t mean to say it, not exactly. It’s not that he doesn’t mean it - more often than not, these days, he finds himself wishing Zuko were already there when he invites him over - it’s just that when he thinks about that kind of thing, of Zuko just being _there_ and not having to find an excuse to call him, it usually stays inside his head. But something about this afterglow state, so fresh from having Zuko’s hands and lips and teeth on him, removes his filter and puts a direct line between his brain and his mouth.

The Post-Coital Stream-of-Consciousness Disconnect has never happened with anyone else before, but Sokka doesn’t think it’s a good idea to examine it any further. He’s already put in the work of naming it, who knows what he’ll find if he looks any closer.

“I don’t think -” Zuko starts, then tries again. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“No, you know what? Here, give me your hand,” Sokka says. He twists onto his side and sifts through the clutter on the nightstand until he finds what he’s looking for. He turns back to Zuko and presses it into his palm.

Zuko's eyes turn into dinner plates. He stares at his hand for a long moment, and then he stares at Sokka. "A key?"

"I was going to give it to you anyway, when we leave for the wedding, but - you know," Sokka waves a hand vaguely. "You're always welcome here, or whatever. And I _know_ half the time you come over is just so you can see Momo anyway - which, by the way, _does_ hurt my ego, even when you do that thing with your tongue because I can tell it's just to make it up to me -"

“Sokka, are you sure? I mean, this is…” Zuko trails off. His cheeks are pink and there’s something in his voice that’s a little too big for this room to hold, and definitely too big for Sokka’s brain to even want to get close to. 

Zuko closes his fist around the key, and there’s a feeling of - finality, or something, about it. Confirmation. Assurance.

Sokka yawns then, long and loud and embarrassed when Zuko laughs at him.

“Am I boring you?” Zuko asks. 

“You’re never boring,” Sokka says, his face half-buried in his pillow. He doesn’t mean to say that, either. Zuko looks at him with eyes like honey and cheeks tinted pink, and Sokka thinks, _oh no._

“I don’t know about _that_ -” Zuko blunders his way through the words, bumping into each one without saying sorry.

Sokka tries to save him. He turns his face out from the pillow and says, “You should come over the night before, though. Before we leave.”

“So you _are_ trying to plan a hookup a week and a half in advance,” Zuko laughs, like he’s about to overflow.

Sokka grins at him. He can’t help it. “One for the road, you know? It’s a long time to go without.”

“It’s a _weekend,_ Sokka.”

“So you’re not coming over Thursday?”

Zuko’s face goes quiet for a moment. “I didn’t say that. I’ve got a key now, you won’t be able to keep me out.”

“Oh no,” Sokka deadpans, “the hot guy I’m sleeping with has 24-hour access to my apartment. What will I do? Won’t someone think of the children?”

Zuko rolls his eyes, but his frown splits into a smile like the sun. There’s late-afternoon light coming in through the window behind them that paints Zuko golden and shining, and his hair is still sex-wild, and Sokka can’t stop _looking_ at him. 

And then Zuko kisses him, one hand on Sokka’s jaw, and it’s - it’s _different._

They don’t do this. They kiss before and during, but never after, not since that first morning, and never like this. Never soft and slow and breathtaking like this, only ever savage and hungry and torrential. Sokka _likes_ savage and hungry and torrential, because they’re _good_ at it, but this is something different. This is something they’ve never done.

Except that’s not true. They _have_ done this kind of gentleness before, once, only this time they’re not on Zuko’s couch about to have an impromptu therapy session, and Sokka’s the one on the receiving end. He doesn’t know what’s brought it on, especially now, when they’re supposed to go back to the part of this arrangement that keeps it all clean-cut and easy. He doesn’t know why Zuko would break this unspoken rule, he doesn’t know why his limbs don’t feel solid anymore, he doesn’t know which of them is humming -

Truth be told, all Sokka knows right now is that he doesn’t want it to stop.

But that would be another push on the boundaries of what’s casual and what’s not, and as much as Sokka wants to grab onto Zuko and hold him there, he knows that’s not how it works between them. They’re savage and hungry and torrential. They’re not tender and sweet and - if he’s honest with himself - romantic, despite what the warm feeling in the pit of his stomach wants him to believe.

Sokka has no way to know if Zuko is riding the same train of thought as he is, or what’s going through his head at all, but he seems to catch himself then. Zuko pulls away, and Sokka knows they’re not kissing anymore because he can see all of Zuko’s face, but he swears he can still feel that delicate pressure on his lips.

Zuko looks at him, his eyes tempting and his mouth kiss-swollen and shiny, and says, “I have to go.”

Sokka’s first thought is _don’t,_ and he doesn’t have a damn clue why.

(Maybe he does. Maybe he just can’t start unboxing that yet.)

Sokka doesn’t say anything, but his face has always been a neon sign for his feelings, so when Zuko stops dead in his love-em-and-leave-em tracks, it’s only half a surprise. There’s some kind of war being waged in his expression, and Sokka can’t tell which side is winning until it’s done and his mouth sets into a hint of a frown.

“I have to go,” Zuko says again, and Sokka tricks himself into believing he doesn’t sound sad about it.

“Okay,” Sokka says. There’s not a lot else he can say. If Zuko has to go, he has to go.

So Zuko goes. He puts his clothes on with far less ceremony than when he took them off, but he seems like he’s making a point when he slides the key into his back pocket. He slips out the door with a smile Sokka misses the second he closes it behind him.

Zuko goes, and Sokka takes a long time to fall asleep in a bed that feels bigger and colder than it is.

* * *

The ceremony itself is short and sweet, and every bit as romantic as Sokka expects it to be. 

Yue cries through her vows and Jin wipes the tears away before her mascara is ruined, and that sets Sokka off, which sets Suki off, and he ends up with a pain in his hand the rest of the night from how hard she grips it. Toph, on his other side, doesn’t cry, but Sokka suspects that might be a matter of necessity when he realises all of the tissues he’s using have come from her purse.

The reception is a different story. 

Probably. He doesn’t remember much of it.

Well. That’s not strictly true.

Sokka remembers turning his phone back on after the ceremony and interrupting Suki’s conversation with Aang and Katara to show them a picture Zuko sent of Momo on the kitchen counter. Aang yelps, delight in every line of his body, and Sokka thinks he sees him wiping his eyes again. Katara is the same, for a moment, and then she looks at Sokka the same way a judge looks at a defendant who’s still got blood in his hair.

“You left my _cat_ with your - your -” she starts, aghast. She cuts herself off, struggling for the right word.

“Fuckbuddy?” Toph offers.

Katara looks at her. “Is that the technical term?”

“It’s what they’re calling it,” Toph shrugs.

“First of all,” Sokka says, “yes, I left Momo with Zuko. He’s very handsome and I trust him. Second, Momo is _Aang’s_ cat, not yours. And third, he’s not Aang’s cat, he’s _mine,_ so I choose who gets to pretend to be in charge of him for the weekend when all of his parents are out catching wedding fever.”

As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Sokka _knows_ they’ll come back to haunt him later. Most likely in the form of some snarky comment from Suki after one-too-many glasses of wine.

“I’m not catching -” Aang tries.

“Aang, you’re like a brother to me,” Sokka tells him. “Do not lie to my face. You were crying before _Yue._ ”

Katara, still determined to get to the bottom of things, turns to Suki. “You allowed this?”

“I like Zuko,” Suki says. “He’s good with Momo, he’s good with Sokka - oh, and his sister is really hot.”

“Thank you, Suki,” Sokka says, though he’s not sure how much it really helps if it sounds like they’re _both_ thinking with their downstairs brains. Katara seems satisfied though, enough to move on to making fun of the Toph-Sokka-Suki tissue train from earlier.

Sokka remembers Yue and Jin coming over to visit their table on their way around the dining hall before dinner is served, and then again before dessert comes out. Yue promises to come back after all the wedding-y things are done, because someone says something that vaguely sounds like Zuko’s name and Sokka chokes on his wine trying to explain who he is, and Yue has to leave before he can get the words out.

Sokka immediately forgets everything about the speeches and toasts, for no reason other than the fact that they’re boring.

He remembers, though, Yue and Jin’s first dance. He doesn’t think he could ever forget that. 

It feels like an intrusion to watch them, even though he knows there are a hundred other eyes on them too, but he can’t look away. Yue and Jin turn slowly around the floor, no name for their dance but _first_ and _forever,_ whispering things that coax laughter and impossibly wide smiles from each other. When Sokka takes Suki’s hand beside him, he knows she’s got tears running down her cheeks too.

He can’t stop thinking about maybe having this someday - the vows, the fragile silver lights, the love that makes the world weep, all of it - but when he thinks about it, there’s no person spinning around a ballroom with him, just a whiff of jasmine he convinces himself he’s imagining.

So when Yue and Jin are finished putting them all to shame, and he dances with Suki like he does every time they come to one of these, he tells her, “I want the next wedding I go to to be mine.”

“They got to you too, huh?” she smirks at him. Her fingers interlace at the back of his neck.

“They just seem so _happy_ ,” he says. Their heads turn to the side at the same time, to see Yue throw her head back in laughter as Jin dips her.

“How many of the bridesmaids do you think are gay?” Suki asks. “I don’t think I want to stay in our room tonight if you’re going to get all romantic on me.”

“This is a lesbian wedding,” Sokka muses. “There’s a strong chance Yue’s parents are the only straight people here. Them and - holy shit, is that Hahn?”

“Wait, _Hahn_ Hahn? Where?” Suki cranes her neck to follow Sokka’s gaze, and he can tell the second she spots him, because her nails start to dig into the skin of his neck.

“Suki,” he says, “you’re about to draw blood.”

“Damn right I am.”

“No, Suki, _my_ blood.”

She looks back at him, and her cheeks flush pink. “Oh. Sorry.”

Her nails retract, so Sokka steers them to a more crowded spot on the dance floor to observe Hahn at the bar with less chance of being observed back.

“What the hell is he doing here?”

“We’re here,” Sokka says. “Maybe Yue invited all of her exes.”

Suki’s eyes snap back up to his. “Yue _likes_ us. And more importantly, she wasn’t _forced_ into a relationship with either of us.”

“You think her parents brought him? For, like, nefarious reasons?”

“No,” Suki says. “I don’t think Yue would’ve let them come if they’d had ulterior motives. She’s smart, she would’ve picked up on that.”

“Then why is he _here?_ Is it an olive branch thing?”

“Maybe,” Suki hums. Her eyes track Hahn’s move from the bar to a seat at a table at the edge of the dance floor, next to - god help him - _Katara._

“Oh no,” Sokka says. 

Sokka watches as his sister stiffens when Hahn takes the seat beside her. She doesn’t look at him, just keeps talking to Toph - _oh, he’s in for it,_ Sokka thinks - and watching the dancers. Sokka’s not much of a lip-reader, but he’d know the words _fuck off_ from Katara if she were speaking binary, and that’s what he sees when Hahn puts a hand on her shoulder and offers her the drink in his hand.

“Oh no,” Suki echoes. “Should we go over there?”

Hahn says something, and Katara looks like she might explode. She glances from Hahn back to the dancefloor, and for a split second she makes eye contact with Sokka. Hahn follows her line of sight. 

They’re slightly too far away for Sokka to make out the intricacies of his expression, but he knows he doesn’t like it. In all fairness, he doesn’t like most of Hahn’s expressions, but that’s mostly because he has to look at him to see them.

“I think we’re going over,” Sokka says. Suki drops her hands from his neck and loops one arm through his as they cut through the rest of the dancers. 

Hahn is out of his seat the second they make it out of the crowd, and he’s gone when they make it to the table. Sokka hears a quick, “-ays good to see you,” and then it’s like he was never there, except for the drink he forgets to take with him.

Logically, Sokka knows that it’s the fact that Suki knows a hundred ways to kill a man in four seconds flat that scared him off, but he still feels a little bit smug when he sits down in the same spot Hahn just vacated.

“I didn’t need you to save me,” Katara hisses.

“Save you from Hahn, no,” Sokka says. “Save you from making a scene at my ex-girlfriend’s wedding, _yes._ I’m surprised he didn’t get frostbite, your shoulder was so cold.”

Suki picks up the forgotten drink, transparent and fizzing, and sniffs it. “Did he say what this was?”

“The drink?” Toph asks. “No, he was too busy trying to pawn it off on Katara to describe it.”

Suki eyes it for a minute, then takes a tentative sip. Her face contorts into the most exaggerated wince Sokka has ever seen. 

“That’s a triple vodka soda,” she says. “That’s _poison._ God, it tastes like paint stripper.”

Katara pushes a glass of rosé toward her, and she downs half of it to wash the taste out.

Sokka turns to Katara. “What did he say to you?”

“It’s nothing, he just -” her cheeks flare crimson, and her brow pinches in frustration. “He tried to hit on me.”

Suki nearly chokes. “Seriously?”

“Over my dead body,” Sokka says.

“Sokka, it’s nothing, it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to _me._ I’m gonna kill him.”

“I’m twenty-four years old, Sokka! I don’t need you to defend my honour!”

“No, he needs to know that there are consequences to his actions.”

“There were no actions!” Katara hisses. “I told him to get lost before he could do anything! Will you please just sit down? You’re drawing attention.”

Sokka doesn’t know when he stood up, but he looks Katara in her serious and mortified eyes, and sits back down. “Are you sure you don’t want me to talk to him?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Can we just forget about it?”

“What if Suki talks to him?”

“No one’s talking to him!”

“Here,” Suki says, and slides him the vodka monstrosity. “Keep yourself busy.”

Sokka takes a horrible sip, and then another, and then one that’s not as bad, and then everything - well, things go downhill from there, memory-wise.

He remembers bits and pieces of the rest of the night, but it’s all snippets of conversation and snowy video on an old TV set. 

He _thinks_ he remembers most of what he says to Yue when she finally comes over to sit with him and Suki, when it’s late enough that the extremely old and the extremely young have been escorted out, but he’s not sure his and Suki’s stories will match up if they try to repeat any of it. 

(Yue asks if he’s seeing anyone, and he says “No,” at the same time that Suki says “Yes.”

He says, “Zuko doesn’t count. We’re not _dating._ ”

“Who’s Zuko?” Yue asks.

“Our catsitter,” Suki says, “and the only person Sokka’s slept with in two and a half months. He counts.”

“Does not,” Sokka says, but he can feel his face heating up.

“Does too,” Suki insists. She turns to Yue and tells her, “Sokka gave him a key. I didn’t get a key until _after_ we broke up.”

“You didn’t move in until after we broke up!”

“And Zuko has one now, and you’re not even - not even his boyfriend.”

“It’s very casual,” Sokka assures Yue. He takes her hand and looks her in the eye, and tells her, “It’s not a relationship. It’s just - we're just having sex. We're having very casual, very earth-shattering sex, and that's all. So what if I think about him sometimes? You'd think about him too if you were fucking him."

This last part is directed at Suki, who looks at him through the bottom of her wine glass.

“What do you mean, you think about him?” Yue asks. Sokka looks back at her, and she’s so beautiful it almost hurts. 

“He’s, like, a _person,_ you know? He’s not just a - a, um - a _body,_ or whatever, he’s like - I don’t know, I like hanging out with him, I guess. He’s a person.” 

That’s not the full truth, but if he admits the full truth to Suki and Yue then he has to admit it to himself, and what does it even matter if none of them are going to remember this conversation when it’s over?)

He remembers running into Hahn again at some point, but not where or how the interaction plays out. He never finds out why he’s there, or if he does, it’s not scandalous enough for his mind to keep hold of it. He doesn’t think he makes any big song and dance about it, at least, but he doesn’t know if anyone was around to see it, and it’s not like he wants to go to _Hahn_ for answers.

He remembers falling into bed in his and Suki’s and Toph’s hotel room at a time he’s both ashamed and proud of.

He remembers the roaring pain inside his head when he wakes up for check out a couple of hours later, still fully dressed from the night before except for the dress shoes he spends five minutes looking for, and he has a vague recollection of changing into regular clothes in a bathroom stall and then sleeping in the car until someone sobers up enough to drive for a while. Most of that time, though, including the period he spends behind the wheel on his turn, is spent trying to keep his skull from splitting in two. He doesn't start making new memories until three hours into the drive, when he's got two cups of coffee in his system.

No one says a word the whole car ride, which is especially remarkable given that the car is full _and_ Suki never came back to their room last night. Any other morning after, Sokka would be prodding her for details, but not today. Today he’s too tired to do anything but sit quietly and try not to die.

A two-hour tailback on the highway and various maintenance road closures heading into town means that after dropping Aang and Katara at their place and Toph at hers, Sokka and Suki don’t make it home until well after midnight. And - as luck would have it - the elevator is out of order.

Sokka’s head pounds with every step up the stairs, blow after aching, brain-rattling blow, but they make it. They reach the door, and Sokka almost cries at the jingling sound of Suki’s keys in her hand as she lets them in.

“Stop being a baby,” she whispers, but even that hurts. “If there’s no water in the fridge, I’m going to kill Zuko. Just a warning.”

 _Zuko._ In the dark, cavernous husk of Sokka’s desperately hungover body, something lights up.

“Noted,” he says.

Suki pushes the door open.

The apartment is dark and just about exactly how they left it. There are some new empty takeout food containers in the kitchen when Sokka and Suki make a beeline for it, but that’s about all that’s changed. Except, something’s different. Something’s not quite right.

Suki digs two bottles of water from the fridge and hands Sokka the emergency Advil they keep in the spice rack, and they drink and medicate in silence.

Silence, Sokka realises. That’s what’s off.

There’s no TV or music, no idle phone conversation, no Momo crying out for attention or food or both. It’s eerie, in a way, but Sokka doesn’t know if he’d be able to cope with anything louder than a whisper right now. 

If Suki notices the strange quiet, she doesn’t mention it. She finishes her water and trails off toward her room, grunting what could be a _goodnight_ to Sokka as she shuffles past him. It’s a good idea, Sokka supposes, to find a bed to sleep the rest of the aftermath off, rather than sleep hunched over the kitchen counter, which is what he wants to do.

His feet have to be dragged, and it takes all the strength he has, but he stumbles into his bedroom, borderline euphoric with relief at the prospect of a good night’s sleep.

He opens the door and finds Zuko reaching for the bedside lamp, blinking dazedly at him. His hair is loose around his bare shoulders, he’s got Momo curled up on the other side of the bed, and the smile he gives Sokka is - it’s just something else entirely.

“Hey,” Zuko says, his sleep-thick voice barely a croak. “Welcome home.”

Sokka tries to say something - anything - but he can’t do anything but look at Zuko and that bleary, lamp-lit smile. 

All day, Sokka has felt like cheap microwave-warmed death, but something about this - Zuko, waiting for him to come back, saying _home_ \- makes him feel a little more human. A little more like himself.

“I tried to wait up,” Zuko says, and it sounds like an apology, almost, “but it started to get really late, and I have an early shift tomorrow, so I just -”

Sokka steps out of his shoes and sweatpants. He still can’t speak.

When Sokka crosses the room and slips under the covers beside him, Zuko says, “I can leave, if you want. I can go home.”

He says it, and doesn’t move a muscle. 

Sokka reaches across him to turn off the light. He finds the switch, and then there’s the moment of eyes adjusting to the dark, and then Sokka realises that his face is barely an inch from Zuko’s.

A small voice, rabid and impulsive from sleep deprivation, whispers in the back of his mind. _Kiss him. Kiss him. Kiss him until you can’t breathe._

Sokka doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he tests the flexibility of _casual_ another way.

He asks, still barely hovering over Zuko, “What if I don’t want that?”

Zuko swallows. “I can stay.”

“So stay,” Sokka says, and lays his head down on Zuko’s chest.

He has three thoughts before he falls asleep.

One: Zuko’s heartbeat is awfully fast for someone who was just asleep.

Two: this isn’t casual.

Three: he doesn’t care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for the amazing response to this fic!! to celebrate 1k kudos (WHAT!!!!!!!!!) next chapter is a bonus zuko pov of what he did while sokka was at yue's wedding. stay tuned and thank you for reading!!!!
> 
> [here's](https://goldrushzukka.tumblr.com/post/635905875495780352/pov-from-the-prompt-ask-list-you-just-posted/) a little ficlet of zuko's pov of the key scene


	4. Weekend at Momo's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank u to haley for ur help w this one!! <3
> 
> recommended listening for this chapter:  
> let's get married by bleachers (mitski cover, available on youtube)  
> crush by tessa violet

**Friday**

Zuko wakes with the siren of Sokka’s alarm. Sokka, face buried in Zuko’s neck and clinging to him like a koala to a tree, does not.

Zuko opens his eyes slowly, blinking against the light through the curtains, and glances around the room for the source of the noise. His eyes get stuck, for a moment, on the side of Sokka’s sleeping face. 

This isn’t the first time he’s seen Sokka asleep, not by a long shot, but there’s still a sort of novelty to it. They’ve been in this... _whatever_ for more than two months now, and he’s still new and shiny. Zuko keeps finding new things about him to be fascinated by, new parts of him to be distracted by. Keeps finding new reasons to look at him for too long.

The alarm blares louder, and Zuko spots Sokka’s phone on the bedside table. Too far for him to reach without literally going _through_ Sokka.

“Sokka,” Zuko whispers.

Nothing.

He clears his throat and tries again. “Sokka.”

Sokka’s brow pinches, and his mouth curves into a frown. The alarm, impossibly, gets louder.

“Sokka,” Zuko says, and uses a finger to poke his cheek, “I’m going to murder you if you don’t turn off that alarm.”

One of Sokka’s eyes cracks open. He croaks, “You do it.”

“I can’t,” Zuko says. “You’re on top of me.”

“In your dreams, pretty boy,” Sokka huffs, and maybe he’s right, but it seems a little early to be making that kind of accusation. 

Sokka rolls over, away from Zuko, and slaps the screen of his phone until the noise stops. The relief is instantaneous. 

Zuko gives himself a moment to enjoy the quiet, then draws back the sheet on his side and swings his legs over the side of the bed. He risks one more glance at Sokka, and finds him already looking at him, rubbing blearily at one eye. Zuko trains his face into stubborn neutrality, and tries to subdue the smile ticking at the corners of his mouth.

“Where are you going?” Sokka asks. “Does snooze mean something different where you’re from?”

Zuko should get up. He should ignore Sokka and his bird nest hair - an unfairly flattering combination of bedhead and last night’s sex-hair - and his awful morning breath, and he should get up and get on with his day. But he doesn’t.

He manages to say, “I’m -” before he’s interrupted by Sokka.

“C’mere,” Sokka says, reaching out towards him with both hands, “I’m cold.”

This is dangerous. Zuko knows it’s dangerous, because it’s been dangerous for weeks now. He probably should’ve stayed home last night, should’ve come over when he was done with work and Sokka was already gone, but Sokka _asked,_ like he’s asking now, and Zuko can’t say no to him. He hasn’t been able to say no to him since that night in the Flying Bison.

So Zuko sighs, and falls back into bed, because Sokka asks and he can’t say no, even when he knows it’s bad for him.

Sokka presses close against him, his body still sleep-warm and comforting, and when he slides back into sleep like it’s nothing, Zuko thinks, _yeah. This is bad._

It’s bad because it’s not. It never is. There is no _bad_ with Sokka. Bad jokes, maybe, but they still make him laugh, so that doesn’t even count. Everything with Sokka - every kiss, every fuck, every talked-over episode of shitty TV - is good, all different shades of it, painting the inside of Zuko’s chest a heart-hammering portrait of _trouble._

Zuko lets him sleep for a little while, but with Sokka’s arm slung across his waist and head pillowed on his shoulder, Zuko doesn’t manage to slip back under. All he can think is that if someone were to see them right now, they would look like a couple. 

They’re not a couple, though, and Zuko is _fine_ with that. _Not a couple_ is what he wants, it’s what he suggested when they started all this. Except that now they’re two and a half months into _all this_ and he’s not sure anymore that he wasn’t just an idiot that night.

* * *

Suki and Sokka leave, rolling suitcases behind them and telling him to “Call if you need anything! We won’t come back because it’s a bitch of a drive, but we’ll send someone over!”, and Zuko is left with an hour to kill before he has to go to work.

He spends most of that time on the couch, going through the list of instructions and tips and rules he’s been left with. The list answers every question he already asked when he got here last night, but he figures it can’t hurt to refresh, especially given how thoroughly empty Sokka had made his brain almost immediately after wrapping up the educational portion of the evening. 

Momo joins him from apparently nowhere while he watches an episode of some nameless straight-people sitcom, and then he makes sure there’s food and water for him in the bowls in the kitchen and leaves. Just like it did last night before he used it to open the door, the key feels heavy and exciting where it sits in the back pocket of his jeans.

It’s not a long shift, just a few hours he couldn’t find anyone to cover for him, but Mai and Ty Lee sure manage to make it feel like it is.

The second he comes out of the staff room and onto the shop floor, they find him. He’s still tying his apron behind his back, not even behind the counter yet, when Ty Lee grabs him. She hauls him past Mai at the cash register and into the gossip hub that is the corner of the espresso machine and the sink.

“Azula says you’re having a sex weekend with Sokka,” she says.

Zuko glances around the shop - still mostly empty, apart from a couple of exhausted-looking students, both wearing heavy-duty headphones and hunched over laptops - and tells her, “Azula lies.”

“So you’re not spending the weekend at his apartment?” Ty Lee frowns.

Mai glances over at them. “Then why did Azula invite us for a three-day marathon girls’ night at your place?”

Zuko sighs. “I am staying at Sokka’s this weekend. But -”

“So it _is_ a sex thing!” Ty Lee’s giggle is more of a shriek than anything else.

“ _But,_ ” Zuko continues, “he’s not there. I’m catsitting while he’s at a wedding out of town.”

“Not a sex thing,” Mai says.

“Not a sex thing,” Zuko confirms.

“I don’t know,” Ty Lee hums. “It could still be a sex thing. It’d take some pretty seriously great sex to get me to catsit for someone I’m not even _dating,_ and even then I think I’d probably want more than just -”

She cuts herself off when she sees Zuko’s pained expression.

“ _Oh,_ ” she says. Her eyes go wide in a way that would put a cartoon deer to shame.

“No,” Zuko warns her, “don’t look at me like that. It’s just - we’re not - it’s not like that, okay? You know it’s not like that. Can we go back to it being a sex thing? Please?”

“But you said it’s not a sex thing. So it’s a _more than sex_ thing.”

Zuko rubs a hand down the side of his face. “It’s too early for this.”

Mai raises an eyebrow. “It’s _noon._ ”

“Exactly,” he says. “Too early. I didn’t get a lot of sleep last night.”

She smirks at him. “I’ll bet.”

He throws his hands in the air in defeat. He stalks past Ty Lee out of the horrible gossip corner, grabs a rag on his way past Mai, and goes to clean tables that don’t need it, just to get away from them.

The lunchtime crowd that starts to trickle in about twenty minutes later keeps them busy enough that Zuko doesn’t have to talk or think about his rel- _whatever_ with Sokka for a few hours. Mai and Ty Lee take turns at the register taking orders while the other joins Zuko in the trenches heating baked goods - Zuko lives in fear of the day someone suggests fresh-made sandwiches to Uncle - and making drinks. 

When the lunch rush starts to taper off and clear out, Ty Lee corners him again, following him around on his table-wiping travels.

“Azula said he gave you a key,” she says. “Is that a lie, too?”

“No,” Zuko sighs, “that one’s true. He gave it to me a week and a half ago. Used it for the first time last night.”

“A key is kind of a big deal, Zuko.” Ty Lee’s voice is careful now, in a way Zuko doesn’t get to hear very often. It’s annoying, for a second, until he reminds himself that she’s only doing it because she cares. _Why_ she cares is beyond him, but that’s an issue for another time.

“It doesn’t have to be,” he says, and while he knows that that’s true, he also knows it isn’t in this case. “I need a way in and out if I’m catsitting, so now I have one.”

“So you’re giving it back when he gets home, then,” Ty Lee says.

Zuko has an answer ready, but it lodges in his throat and won’t come out. His hand goes still on the table, circular wipe unfinished.

“I -” he says. “I don’t know. If he asks for it, I guess.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“I’m - of _course_ I don’t want to. I _like_ him.”

It’s the first time he’s said it out loud. It’s three in the afternoon, his back is breaking from waiting tables, Ty Lee’s face is too kind to look at, and he likes Sokka.

Ty Lee asks, “Does he know that?”

Zuko grunts, “I told you. We’re not like that.”

“Well, why not?”

“Because,” Zuko says. _Because I made it the way it is. Because I don’t want to have to talk about it. Because I’m scared to lose this, even if it’s not everything I want._

“Because?” Ty Lee presses.

“Yeah, _because,_ ” Zuko says. “Can we just drop it? Please? I’ll take your shift on Monday if you stop talking about this.”

Ty Lee raises her hands in surrender. “Okay, I’ll drop it.”

“Thank you.”

“But for what it’s worth,” she says, and Zuko bites back a curse, “I think you _should_ talk about it. With someone. It doesn’t have to be me -”

“It will not be you, Ty Lee.”

“- but, you know, communication is the key to any healthy relationship.”

“We’re not in a relationship!” Zuko hisses. 

“If you say so,” Ty Lee says. “I’m not the one who can’t talk about my not-relationship without my face going on fire.”

She walks away, taking Mai’s place behind the counter when she goes on her break, and no one bothers Zuko about anything for the rest of his shift.

* * *

Zuko clocks out just before the Friday evening date night rush. If there’s one thing the Jasmine Dragon has over places like Starbucks, it’s the apparently inherent romance of tea over coffee. Zuko supposes the less common choice makes someone more intriguing from a relationship perspective, but mostly he thinks people who go on dates to his uncle’s tea shop are pretentious. That might have more to do with the _uncle_ part than anything else, though.

The Jasmine Dragon is only three blocks away from Sokka’s apartment, so he doesn’t feel bad for dawdling a little on the walk home. 

( _Home._ He has to stop thinking of it like that. It’s not his home, he’s just a guest, and he reminds himself of that fact every time he catches himself slipping up, but the key in his pocket and the burning in his chest tell a different story.)

He stops into the tiny Thai take-out place he’s seen every time he’s gone between work and Sokka’s but never actually tried. It’s a little early for dinner, though, and when he notices a sign above the door behind the counter advertising a palm reader, he’s caught so off-guard that he picks up a menu from the counter display and walks back out into the street.

He pulls out his phone to occupy his mind for the last few minutes of the walk, and finds a half-dozen messages from Sokka waiting for him.

**[Sokka // 13:26]** is ice cream for lunch ok if it’s also what i want for dinner?

 **[Sokka // 14:02]** none of my friends can drive. please send help

 **[Sokka // 14:06]** i’m serious i think katara got her license from a cereal box

 **[Sokka // 15:33]** rascal flatts life is a highway 6 times in a row has to be against the geneva convention

 **[Sokka // 15:38]** make that 7. if toph doesn’t make it back from this trip you know why

 **[Sokka // 16:42]** we just hit pre-rush hour rush hour traffic and no one’s listening to me requesting dolly parton 9 to 5

 **[Sokka // 16:45]** remind me to bring you with me next time we do this. none of these people know what culture is

Zuko is nearly blinded by the early evening sun peeking out from behind a building as he reads that last one. That same blast of light is what he blames for the warm feeling in his chest, too.

Embarrassing as it is, he feels a little thrill when he pulls out the key to let himself back into Sokka’s apartment. Momo is waiting on the other side of the door, vocal and friendly, and it’s the best welcome home Zuko’s had since he lived with Uncle.

“Hey, little guy,” Zuko says. He closes the door behind him, and crouches down to greet Momo properly.

Momo bumps his head into Zuko’s outstretched hand, rubbing his face into the palm, and Zuko laughs. For a moment, he considers sitting down right here, propping himself up against the door and just letting Momo purr in his lap until he’s had his fill of human attention and scurries away to be left alone.

He doesn’t, because he likes to think he still has some dignity left, but he _does_ let Momo climb up onto his shoulder. He’s seen Sokka do this with Momo a couple of times, and each time has made him feel uncomfortably sunny inside. He catches sight of himself in a mirror, though, and wonders how Sokka manages to make wearing a cat as an accessory look _charming_ rather than _deranged._

He goes digging through the kitchen to check his options for dinner. He does the same thing every night at home, because he somehow forgets every single day that he doesn’t know how to cook anything more complicated than instant noodles, but here he doesn’t have the luxury of Azula breathing down his neck waiting for him to ask her to make something. He’s never thought of Azula as a _luxury_ before, but there’s a first time for everything.

Zuko’s phone vibrates like a jackhammer on the counter, and he nearly hits his head coming up from a cupboard to check it.

**[Suki // 17:58]** just checked in :)

Zuko barely has time to type three letters of his reply before the screen changes, and Suki’s calling him. 

He puts the phone to his ear. “I was just about to -”

“Zuko!” It’s not Suki.

“Sokka,” he breathes, and he’s damn lucky to be alone in this apartment. Not that Momo doesn’t count, because he does, but he’s unlikely to make fun of Zuko for the stupid smile on his face.

“We just checked in,” Sokka says. There’s a lot of noise in the background, mostly regular hotel sounds of bells and suitcases and _enjoy your stay, sir_ s, but also the undeniable sounds of bickering and jostling and demands to _give me back my phone, Sokka!_

Zuko tries not to wish he were there.

“So I heard.” Zuko abandons his searching and sits up on the counter. “How was the rest of the drive?”

“Awful, these people are animals,” Sokka says, and Zuko hears elevator doors opening. “How was work?”

Zuko hums. “Let’s just say I’m glad I’ve got the weekend off.”

“That bad, huh?”

Zuko has a reply on the tip of his tongue, probably something witty and alluring that’ll keep Sokka on the phone for another few minutes so Zuko can sink deeper into the hole he’s been digging for at least a month now, but he doesn’t get to say anything. He hears more jostling on the other end of the line, and what sounds suspiciously like a _yelp,_ and then it’s not Sokka talking to him anymore.

“Hi, Zuko,” Suki says. Elevator doors again. “Sokka can’t come to the phone right now because it doesn’t belong to him.”

“That seems reasonable,” Zuko says.

“I knew you’d see it my way.” There’s some muffled conversation on her end, and Zuko hears her hiss, _“Call him yourself if you want to talk to him so bad!”_

“I’m going to let you go,” Zuko says, a little bit to ease Suki’s stress and a little bit to see if Sokka really will call him. “Momo’s fine, by the way. I’ll talk to you later.”

“See you Sunday, duckie,” Suki says. Before she hangs up, he hears her snap, “It goes the _other wa-_ ”

Sokka doesn’t call, but he does send a photo of himself and Suki in matching hotel bathrobes. Zuko looks at it for a long time.

He tries the cupboards again, lying to himself about cooking for himself for once, and gives up after twenty minutes.

He orders from the Thai place and stretches out on the couch to watch bad TV for the rest of the night. 

He feels strange about it, at first. Being here, in this space with Sokka and Suki’s fingerprints all over it. Making himself comfortable in someone else’s home. It feels like an invasion, almost, like he’s an intruder. He feels that way all through dinner and even a while after, until Momo joins him halfway through a History Channel Conspiracy Show marathon and falls asleep on his chest. He takes a photo and sends it to Sokka, because he doesn’t think well when he’s tired.

What’s worse than strange, though, is going to bed. 

It’s not the first time he’s slept in Sokka’s bed. It’s not even the first time he’s slept _alone_ in Sokka’s bed. It is, however, the first time he’s slept alone in Sokka’s bed knowing he’ll still be alone when he wakes up.

He strips down to boxers and tugs an old t-shirt over his head, and when he slides under the covers, the bed is cold and too big.

The cold is probably real, but he knows he’s being irrational about the size. The bed is the same size it was this morning, and last night, and every other moment before then. All that’s different now is that it’s just him and Momo occupying it.

And sure, Momo is sweet, and Zuko’s heart melts when he curls in against his side, but he’s not the warm body Zuko wants next to him.

* * *

**Saturday**

Zuko wakes early enough to let Momo out to his litter box, and then falls asleep again for another couple of hours.

He doesn’t have any plans for the day - no work, no family obligations thanks to Mai and Ty Lee apparently having Azula covered, no fun activities. He hasn’t had a do-nothing Saturday in a long time. He wonders idly, while searching the kitchen for cereal, why that is. It’s only when he’s taking a photo of Momo on the countertop that it dawns on him: the thing he usually does on a Saturday is currently watching his ex-girlfriend get married.

He cringes away from that thought, blames it on the bad night’s sleep he didn’t even have, and sends Sokka the photo. 

It takes longer than he cares to admit to find everything he needs to make the breakfast of a broke college student, but eventually he does. He eats his first bowl of cereal at the breakfast bar/counter/whatever, and his second on the couch with the news on TV. He’s already not paying much attention, but it loses him completely when his phone buzzes on the coffee table.

**[Sokka // 13:21]** !!!!!

 **[Sokka // 13:22]** everyone says hi

 **[Sokka // 13:22]** except katara

 **[Sokka // 13:23]** she thinks you’re an unfit mother

**[Zuko // 13:25]** I thought the church changed its stance on catsitting out of wedlock?

_Wedlock._

It’s a joke, and he knows that’s how Sokka will read it, but he wants so badly to take it back. To stop and think things through for half a second before almost-proposing to the guy he’s sleeping with over _text._

He buries his head in his hands and wonders how he managed to put his foot in his mouth without even opening it. 

He’s saved from having to think about it much more, though, by what might be the most embarrassing chain reaction of all time. He sets his phone down - only, he doesn’t. He misses the table by a mile, and in his scramble to catch his phone before it breaks on the hardwood floor and wakes Momo on the cushion beside him, his hand finds the lip of his cereal bowl, and then _that’s_ falling, too. He manages to catch the phone, but something in his head gets lost in translation on its way down his arms, and he ends up with a boxers-only lap full of soggy Cheerios. 

Momo gets a splash of milk on his back and hisses at Zuko for his crimes, and somehow that’s the worst part of it.

“I’m sorry, little guy, I’ll -” he cuts himself off. He'll _what,_ exactly? What’s his plan here? He’s going to _bathe_ man’s most famously self-cleaning pet? Is that before or after he removes his breakfast from the wrong side of his underwear?

Momo makes a disagreeable sound that breaks Zuko’s heart, and vaults over the back of the couch to feel betrayed in a corner somewhere.

The milk is no longer a puddle in his lap, but soaked into the fabric of his boxers - both sides, too, it feels like sitting on a bus in July - and running down his legs into the socks he now regrets pulling on the second his feet touched the freezing bathroom tiles. It’s an altogether disturbing sensory experience. 

But at least his phone isn’t broken, right?

He sighs and, bracing himself, stands. A single Cheerio worms its way under and past the waistband of his boxers. Walking is a wet nightmare, but he finds a cloth in the kitchen to wipe the mess from the sofa - leather, thank god, if he’d done this on the couch at home Azula would have his head - and the table. He does the floor, too, to keep Momo from poisoning himself, but the squat to get down there is a whole new horror show.

Next port of call is a shower. He leaves the boxers and his t-shirt on the bathroom floor, and makes it as far as scraping his hair into a knot on the top of his head before he realises that it's been ruined, too. The ends are stuck together in horrible cereal-milk clumps he can’t comb out with his fingers. He sighs again and lets his hair drop back down to his shoulders, cringing at the clingy feeling of it against his collarbone. 

Thursday night flashes through his mind, the memory of Sokka’s lips and teeth in that same spot, and suddenly there’s colour rushing to his face for a very different reason.

He steps into the shower, crossing his fingers for hot water, and karma shines on him. 

He takes a minute to boil under the spray, and picks a shampoo at random, because none of the options presented to him by the shower caddy are his usual. He lathers, rinses, and repeats - and then he feels an embarrassed, subdued kind of thrill when he realises, halfway through conditioning, what’s familiar about it.

It smells like Sokka.

It’s a simple thing, really, nothing to make a fuss over. Probably plenty of people use this shampoo with this conditioner, because Zuko knows for a fact that Sokka just gets whatever’s on sale, but something about it feels so very personal. 

_No,_ he thinks. _Intimate._

 _Intimate_ because - right now at least - he’s the only person who knows that this is what Sokka smells like.

And he _knows_ this is Sokka, because it’s the same scent that clings to the pillows in his room, the same vanilla-coconut-sea-breeze he breathes every time he wakes up with Sokka wrapped around him. It’s intoxicating, and Zuko likes it so much it scares him, and that’s what makes it dangerous. 

It’s starting to look like everything about this is dangerous.

* * *

He stays in the shower until the water starts to run cold. He drags a towel through his hair until it stops dripping, and then wraps it around his waist. His discarded clothes glare at him from the floor.

And then comes his next problem: he didn’t pack his underwear with a cereal emergency in mind.

So it’s either interrupt Azula’s girls’ weekend to get more from home, or commit the deadly sin of domesticity and do laundry. Zuko knows which option he prefers, and it’s not the one that comes with a wrath. 

He pulls on tomorrow’s underwear and a pair of sweats, and when he roots through his bag for a clean shirt and only finds his Jasmine Dragon uniform, he has to wonder who the hell let him pack like this. He bites his lip and sits on the corner of Sokka’s bed to think.

He could just go without a shirt for the day. It’s not like he’ll be going outside for anything, not when he has the freedom to hang out with Momo and Netflix all day. Except - he still has to go to the laundry room in the basement, and that might mean seeing other people. Sure, he doesn’t _know_ the people, and he’ll probably never see them again, but he knows how he’d feel if he saw a shirtless stranger sitting on _his_ washing machine.

So he does the only thing he can think of, even though he knows it’ll drive him insane: he pulls open the top drawer of Sokka’s dresser and takes a t-shirt from there.

The fit is a little bit wrong and there’s a grotesquely 80’s picture of Madonna on the front, which makes Zuko think it might’ve belonged to someone else at some point, but it’s soft and comfortable and it smells like Sokka’s skin, all laughter and charm and cold night air. He catches sight of himself in the mirror and can’t help the blush that blooms in his cheeks.

 _Casual,_ he reminds himself. _No strings attached._

Which is why he texts Suki instead of Sokka.

**[Zuko // 15:06]** I’m doing laundry, do you want me to do your sheets?

**[Suki // 15:10]** you’re my favourite sexual partner slash catsitter sokka has ever had

Zuko laughs out loud, and pretends not to notice that blush creep back up his neck.

**[Zuko // 15:11]** I’ll take that as a yes. How’s the wedding?

**[Suki // 15:13]** there is a LOT of chmpagrjn

 **[Suki // 15:13]** cahpmhagne

 **[Suki // 15:13]** chsanpghn

 **[Suki // 15:14]** alcohol :)

Zuko drops the phone into his pocket. He’s not exactly eager to spend two hours in the laundry room, so he takes his time collecting everything that needs washing. He dumps his uniform in on top of whatever Sokka left in his hamper, and strips the bed, too, because he can’t stand the idea of a half-load. On his way to Suki’s room through the bathroom, he picks up the cereal casualties and drops them in the hamper.

It occurs to him, as he’s pulling Suki’s sheets from her bed, that this is the first time he’s been in her room. It’s exactly as he expects, really - tidy but still lived-in, surfaces glittering with odd bits of jewellery, colour splashed in every corner of the room, windowsill succulents that match the curtains. He can’t put his finger on it, but there’s something welcoming about it. He doesn’t linger long enough to figure it out, but he leaves the room without feeling like an intruder.

In the time it takes him to fill the hamper and haul it into the living room, turn away for half a second, and look back to find Momo diving into it headfirst, Zuko’s phone buzzes twice.

**[Suki // 15:27]** detergent under the kitchen sink. dw about sorting colours im pretty sure thats a myth

 **[Suki // 15:31]** sokka says theres change for the machines in the detergent box????????

He tells Momo, now burrowed fully into Suki’s sheets, “Stay there,” and stalks into the kitchen to investigate. He fishes the detergent box from under the sink and, sure enough, it rattles. He’s not sure if it’s endearing or concerning.

Zuko wedges the box down the side of the hamper. He tightens the sheet around Momo, swaddling him so just his face is visible, and scratches his forehead. The milk-on-the-back incident seems to be forgotten.

“What do you say?” he asks. “Do you want to keep me company downstairs for a while?”

Momo blinks at him and says nothing.

“Okay then,” he says, “let’s go.”

* * *

Two and a half hours of staring at cinder block utility room walls with Momo purring in his lap later, Zuko draws on his last reserves of motivation to dress Sokka’s and Suki’s beds in freshly cleaned sheets. He’s found over the years that this is a chore that relies on momentum. If he stops for even a second, he knows he’ll stop permanently and end up sleeping on a bare mattress tonight. It’s terrible and physically exhausting, but he gets it done, and now he won’t have to live with the fact he let Suki come home to an unmade bed knowing he’s the one that unmade it.

When he’s done, and everything else is folded in a tidy stack on top of Sokka’s dresser, Zuko flops face-first onto the bed. The sheets aren’t warm anymore, but even still, he almost falls asleep. But he can’t, because there’s takeout to order and cats to sit and Netflix to browse.

He digs through the stack of menus that live on top of the fridge and finds the number for his and Sokka’s usual Chinese place. He fills Momo’s food dish while he orders - never let it be said that Zuko cannot multitask - and spends his wait-time watching, transfixed, as Momo cleans it out.

“You’re a lot better at being a cat than I expected,” Zuko tells him.

Momo doesn’t look up from his dish.

“What does it say about me as a human that I’m making dinner time conversation with a cat?”

He doesn’t get to find out if Momo has an answer for that, because the door buzzes.

He takes his time with dinner, and when he’s done, an hour later, he carries his dishes and empty containers into the kitchen. He finds his forgotten fortune cookie at the bottom of the plastic carrier bag, and cracks it open over the trash can.

_Let yourself fall. Someone will be there to catch you._

He huffs a short laugh, and tries not to think too hard about why exactly he can’t bring himself to let the paper flit down into the recycling bin. He hangs onto it, stuffing it into his pocket for reasons he’s sure won’t hold up under close scrutiny.

* * *

It’s close to midnight, and he’s drying his hands on a dishcloth after washing the dishes when his phone rings. It buzzes like a hornet nest on the countertop beside the sink.

Sokka’s name flashes on the screen. Zuko’s heart lurches in his chest.

He’s embarrassed by it, for a second, the fact that Sokka can knock the air from his lungs and send heat rushing into his cheeks without even trying. Without even _knowing._

He rights himself, shakes off most of the schoolgirl nervousness, and picks up the phone.

“Sokka?”

“Zuko!” Sokka’s voice is a yell over the background sounds of music and laughter and general merriment.

Zuko hops up onto the counter, and leans his head back against the cupboards. “How’s it going? I didn’t think I’d hear from you ‘til tomorrow.”

“Ev’thing’s good,” Sokka says. The music is muted suddenly, like Sokka’s stepped outside its range, but the din of intoxicated conversation remains. Sokka laughs at something Zuko can’t hear, and tells whoever said it to, _“Shut up, ‘m on the phone!”_

“Sounds busy,” Zuko says. “Is everything okay? Do you need something? Not that I don’t like to hear your voice, but -”

“No, I’m just - just checkin’ in,” Sokka says, before Zuko can dig himself any deeper into the canyon he’s got going on. “How’s my baby?”

Zuko glances down at Momo, batting at the untied laces of his shoes with one determined paw. “He’s doing just fine.”

“And how’s Momo?”

“He’s - what?”

Distantly, Zuko hears the groaning of at least two other people, and what is distinctly Toph’s voice say, _“Jesus Christ, Sokka, are you serious?”_

Zuko’s skin feels molten. There’s only Momo here to see him, but still he puts a hand to his face to hide the violent red of his blush from the world. 

_My baby._

Is this what he’s reduced to now? Losing any semblance of cool he ever had over pet name?

Sokka’s drunk, he probably doesn’t even know what he said. He _definitely_ doesn’t know the reaction he’s causing, and if Zuko has to be the only one who remembers this conversation, then he never will.

 _“Can you stop flirting for one mi- yes, you were! Goddamn it -”_ Zuko has to pull the phone away from his ear until the sounds of struggle die down.

“Hi, Zuko,” comes Suki’s voice. He can hear Sokka protesting, but can’t make out his words through the slurring and wedding-reception ambience.

“Hey, Suki,” he says. He tells himself she won’t notice the waver in his voice as he strains to keep it at a normal pitch.

“Sorry about Sokka,” Suki says, and she’s drunk too. “We just wanted to make sure everything was good on your end, ‘cause our end is _so good,_ Zuko, it’s like - it’s a fairytale, ‘cept it’s a lot more fun and there’s no talking animals, and - _oh,_ there’s this one bridesmaid who - _ow, Sokka!”_

Sokka sounds out of breath when he says, “I’m back! Hi, Zuko.”

“Hi, Sokka,” Zuko says. He still feels off-kilter, and the way Sokka says his name isn’t helping. _Zuko,_ like it rhymes with _dear, sweetheart, my baby._

“You do anything today?” Sokka asks. Zuko can hear his smile. His cheeks feel hotter.

“Not really,” Zuko says, “just some laundry. I - I had to borrow one of your shirts.”

He doesn’t know why he says it. It just sort of - slips out. It’s not like Sokka will remember this tomorrow, though, so maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe he can say whatever he wants and it won’t make a blind bit of difference.

“You - okay, yeah,” Sokka says, and his breath sounds short again. Zuko can’t hear the others around him anymore, so maybe he’s escaped them.

“How’s the wedding?”

Zuko closes his eyes and lets Sokka talk. He doesn’t listen to every word, because a lot of it is incoherent rambling, but the sound of his voice is a very particular kind of soothing. It’s the kind where he’s relaxed, because he knows none of these words will hurt him, but his heart still races and his blood still sings every time Sokka says his name.

“I wish you could be here to see it, Zuko,” Sokka finishes, and he sounds far away and too close all at once.

“I -” Zuko says, and he can barely breathe around those words. “Yeah. Me too.”

“Next time,” Sokka says. He’s quiet now, and Zuko can’t quite tell if he means to be heard at all.

“Next time,” Zuko says. It feels dangerously close to a promise.

Sokka doesn’t say anything for a while, and Zuko doesn’t feel any urge to fill the silence. If he tries hard enough, he can hear Sokka breathe.

Then, Sokka says, “I’m gonna go. Say goodnight to Momo for me, okay?”

Zuko smiles. “Okay.”

“Alright,” Sokka huffs, and there’s that grin again, in his voice and behind Zuko’s eyelids. “G’night, Zuko.”

“Goodnight, Sokka.”

The line goes quiet.

Zuko scoops Momo into his arms and carries him off to bed - Sokka’s bed. Tonight doesn’t feel like an invasion, but there is a curious ache that takes up residence in his ribcage, rattling around every time he disturbs it by reaching out into the empty space beside him.

* * *

**Sunday**

In the morning, he steps out to the grocery store four blocks away to restock what he’s taken from the fridge, and comes back with fresh baked bread and ingredients for a stir-fry dinner. He doesn’t know how long he’ll be waiting for Sokka and Suki to get back, but gets enough food for three, just in case.

He gets a text from Sokka on the walk back to say they’re coming home, but nothing after that.

Momo greets him at the door and nearly trips him on the way to unload the groceries in the kitchen. Zuko packs everything away, and as soon as he’s done, he crouches down and lets Momo leap up onto his shoulder. When Zuko settles on the couch with a book, Momo comes with him, and stays curled in his lap until the groan of Zuko’s stomach wakes him.

He turns half the loaf of bread into a sandwich and lunches on that.

The afternoon slides into evening.

Dinner time rolls around. He cooks for the first time in a long time, and it doesn’t turn out that bad.

Ty Lee, probably still at his and Azula’s place, texts to make sure he’s still good to cover her shift in the morning. He pulls an ironing board out from down the side of the fridge and presses his uniform before sending her back an affirmative.

Night falls, and the estimated arrival time Sokka and Suki gave him on Friday morning passes without a sign of them. It’s not until he can’t go more than half a minute without yawning that he comes to the conclusion he’s probably not going home tonight.

Midnight strikes, and Zuko calls it quits. Momo follows him to bed, used to the routine now. While Zuko pulls on pyjamas, Momo hops up onto the bed and kneads a spot on the blanket for himself.

Momo is on the side Zuko tentatively calls his own, but he knows it’ll be too much hassle to move him, so Zuko slides under the covers on the other side. Sokka’s side.

* * *

Silence is a funny thing. 

At a funeral, it’s respectful and expected. At a concert, it’s a bad sign. At Sokka’s apartment, though, it’s - unprecedented. 

It’s never been _quiet_ in all the time Zuko has spent here. Even on nights he’s stayed over, there’s the sound of life on the street outside, the distant _whoosh_ of Suki’s ocean sounds sleep soundtrack a room and a half over, Sokka’s witching-hour whispers of _“Hey, move over, my arm is numb,”_ and _“No, that’s too far, come back.”_ Always something.

He doesn’t even notice the silence, not really, until it’s broken.

Keys jingling. The scrape of a lock. The _click_ of the door closing.

Zuko’s eyes shoot open. He doesn't know what time it is other than _late._

Clumsy, tired footsteps. Muffled conversation.

Zuko sits up.

More footsteps, slow and stumbling. The creaking turn of the doorknob.

Zuko flicks on the bedside lamp. The light is harsh for the moment it takes him to get used to it.

And there’s Sokka, standing in the doorway like a dream.

“Hey,” Zuko croaks, and the smile on his face is untameable. “Welcome home.”

Sokka just looks at him, and for a moment Zuko thinks he’s done something wrong. Should he not be here? Should he just have gone home, and let Sokka have his place to himself after the weekend he’s had?

“I tried to wait up,” he explains, “but it started to get really late, and I have an early shift tomorrow, so I just -”

He stops talking when Sokka starts to undress. He still hasn’t said a word, but he also hasn’t taken his eyes off Zuko for a second. 

Sokka steps over his discarded shoes and slips into bed beside him.

“I can leave, if you want,” Zuko says, and doesn’t move an inch. “I can go home.”

Sokka reaches across him for the lamp, and now they’re chest to chest, and Zuko can barely breathe. His eyes drop to Sokka’s mouth.

The light goes out.

“What if I don’t want that?” Sokka asks. Zuko can’t see much in the dark, but he can make out the shine of Sokka’s eyes and the pleading shape of his brow.

Hesitation creeps up his throat. Zuko swallows it.

“I can stay,” he says. His blood pounds in his ears.

Sokka moves then, shifting downward. He lays his head on Zuko’s chest and whispers, “So stay.”

Zuko stays, and lets himself fall.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> recommend listening for this chapter:  
> delicate by taylor swift  
> heartbeat by carly rae jepsen

Sokka wakes up on a Monday three weeks after the wedding and he feels fine. 

Work is the same as it always is: painstaking and barely interesting, but paying his rent.

Lunch is the same as it always is: half-wasted arguing with Toph about where they should go to escape Teo’s microwaved tuna, half-wasted arguing with Toph about whose turn it is to pay when they finally make it to the same Korean place they always go, all spent feeling like he’s forgetting something.

He gets back to his desk and there’s his phone, blending into his mouse pad. Mystery solved.

**[Suki / / 13:12]** one of the girls roped me into babysitting so you’re on your own for tonight

 **[Suki / / 13:19]** update you are also on your own for wednesday

 **[Suki / / 13:19]** damn my generous and caring nature

**[Sokka / / 14:02]** but movie night ????

**[Suki / / 14:04]** do you want me to invite the baby? is that what you want? you want a 4 year old to come to movie night on slasher week?

 **[Suki / / 14:06]** didn't think so

So Sokka throws a balled-up post-it note over the desk divider at Toph and waits for her head to pop up.

“What,” she spits.

“Do you want to come over for movie night?”

“I’m _blind.”_

“I’ll buy dinner,” Sokka offers. “And you know you love jumpscare audio descriptions.”

Toph sighs. “Fine. But we’re doing an ice cream run on the way to your place. You never have the good shit.”

“The good shit’s expensive.”

“Good thing I’m not buying, then, huh?”

 _“God,_ okay,” Sokka relents. “I’ll buy you your stupid ice cream. But you owe me.”

“I’m keeping you company on a lonely Monday night. This is a transaction. Get back to work.”

Sokka huffs a little laugh. He grabs his phone again while he waits for the fossil Piandao calls a computer to look alive.

**[Sokka // 14:11]** do you have plans wednesday night? suki’s babysitting so i’ve got the place to myself

Zuko hasn’t stayed over since the night Sokka got back from the wedding, and he hasn’t tried to, either. Sokka’s sure it’s probably nothing to worry about, because he trusts Zuko to talk to him if things start to get complicated.

Not that he talked to Zuko when he woke up the next morning and realised how complicated asking him to stay could make things, but that’s beside the point.

The _point_ is that things are perfectly _uncomplicated_ right now, and he wants to keep them that way. Sort-of-maybe inviting Zuko to stay the night might be a step in the wrong direction, but it doesn’t have to be. He’s not even sure that’s what he’s asking.

An hour later, his phone buzzes with an answer.

**[Zuko // 15:08]** I’ll bring wine.

And that’s a yes. 

Sokka puts his phone down and smiles until he forgets what he’s smiling about, and then he remembers and he breaks out into a grin again. He decides it’s probably best not to examine that reaction too closely while he’s still at his place of work.

* * *

Sokka doesn’t end up buying dinner. At least, not a real dinner. 

They stop into the supermarket on the way home from work, and he reads out ice cream flavours for Toph to decide on, and she decides on all of them. They leave with more ice cream than Sokka has freezer space for. This discovery is only made when they get back to his place, though, when the door won’t close and there’s still a couple of tubs left in the bag.

Sokka sighs. “These are gonna be ruined if they don’t get eaten soon. And the last thing I need is Momo getting sick because he ate melted cookie dough from the floor.”

Toph’s face perks into a smile. “We could eat them.”

“You make a compelling argument,” Sokka says. “Ice cream for dinner it is.”

Suki comes home a little after midnight. 

She tells Toph and Sokka, still posted on the couch and talking loudly over the movie only one of them can see, “I hate babysitting.”

She takes Sokka’s pint of ice cream right out of his hands, and he barely has a chance to move out of the collision course before she drops her entire body onto the spot he’d just occupied.

“You’re still going on Wednesday, though, right?” Sokka asks. He lifts her to sit back down and lets her rest her head in his lap.

She sighs. “I said I would, and Ying offered to cover my class next time I needed it, so I guess I am. Why?”

“I’m expecting company.”

“You can just say Zuko,” Toph says, scraping the bottom of a bag of microwave popcorn. “We know it’s Zuko. It’s not like you ever have anyone else over.”

“Okay,” Sokka says. “Zuko’s coming over, and we’re going to make out in the very spot you’re sitting right now, and then he’s going to ride me like a mechanical rodeo bull in a dive bar. Is that what you wanted to hear, Toph?”

Toph snorts. “Kinda, yeah.”

“I wish you wouldn’t talk like that in front of Momo,” Suki says. “He’s very impressionable.”

“Momo lived with my sister for two years,” Sokka reminds her. “He’s heard far worse than that.”

The movie is a lost cause. They turn it off half an hour from the end, long after Suki disappears into her room, because Toph wants to go to sleep and Sokka hasn’t been paying enough attention to it to insist she stay up with him to see it through. 

Toph and Sokka’s sleepover routine is the same every time. 

Toph comes over _just for a couple of hours, I mean it this time,_ and then a couple turns into a handful turns into the buses have stopped running and Sokka’s not fit to drive anymore. Then someone - Sokka, always Sokka - says “Why not just stay over?” and they’re up for another two hours gossiping like it’s a slumber party, until Toph lets Sokka see her yawn.

That’s when Sokka says, “You know, you can take my bed if you want it. I won’t even make you share it.”

To which Toph replies, “Your bed where you have sex with men? Pass. Get me a blanket.”

And then Sokka rolls his eyes, but he gets her a blanket and the pillow from the other side of his bed. He kisses her forehead goodnight and she flips him off. He still doesn’t know who taught a blind girl about the middle finger, but to be fair, he doesn’t know where Toph picks up half the shit she comes out with.

* * *

Sokka wakes up on Tuesday and he feels fine. He’s a little sluggish, maybe, but he’s fine. He’s _fine._

He walks with Toph to the office and she ignores all of his attempts to make conversation, because Suki didn’t make any coffee before she left this morning and that’s somehow his fault.

When the clock on the wall finally drags its hands to mid-morning caffeine break time, the machine is broken. Again. Someday, Sokka’s going to be offered a promotion or a raise or something else that comes with perks, and he’s going to turn it down and demand Piandao replace this godforsaken contraption instead.

He nearly burns himself just trying to turn the thing off, and it rattles and whines until he pulls the plug from the wall. It’ll probably be fine again, somehow, in a couple of hours, but _in a couple of hours_ isn’t _right now._ He scribbles a warning note for the next challenger, and wanders over to Toph’s desk.

“Devil machine’s broken again,” he says. 

Toph leans back in her seat and tilts her face up to the ceiling. “Starbucks down the street is closed.”

“Wait, what? Why?”

“Some white lady got the wrong drink and they wouldn’t refund it, so she said she saw a roach on the counter and got the place shut down for fumigating.”

“Fuck,” Sokka says. 

“Fuck indeed.” Toph hums for a moment, thinking. Then, “What about that place a block over?”

“What place?” 

Sokka’s entire life is compacted into the six downtown blocks between work and his apartment - give or take a couple either side for the Flying Bison and Aang and Katara’s place - but he’s drawing a blank now on Coffee Shops In Your Area. Probably because he needs coffee. Funny how things work out like that.

“It’s kind of snooty,” Toph says, and Sokka doesn’t like the sound of that, “but the staff are nice and it’s not expensive.”

“We spend every break together,” Sokka says. “How do you even know this place?”

“I have a life outside of this office, Sokka,” Toph sighs, and then she’s standing and tugging on her jacket. “Are you coming or not? I’ll buy.”

Sokka’s not one to turn down a freebie, and Toph usually isn’t one to offer, so he lets her lead the way.

And that is how, a block and a half later, Sokka ends up at the Jasmine Dragon tea shop for the first time.

The place is - he doesn’t even know what to call it. Quaint, but not gimmicky. Nice, but not in a way that looks like it’ll overcharge you. It’s _earnest,_ he decides. Like it exists for the _tea_ and not for the _shop._

It’s busier than a place as niche as this really should be at this hour, but not crowded. A couple of uniformed employees are behind the counter taking orders and dishing out pastries, and there’s another one flying around the place on floor duty.

Well. It’s floor duty in the sense that she’s cleaning tables and talking to customers, but Sokka swears her feet don’t even touch the ground. She’s like a dancer, or a gymnast, or a damn fairy - and Sokka can’t take his eyes off her, even as he and Toph make it to the front of the line at the counter. 

A toneless voice says, “She’s not on the menu,” and Sokka’s gaze snaps forward. A woman with razor-sharp eyes stares back at him. Behind her, the shoulders of her colleague slump as if in despair. Sokka can’t see his face, but he feels a brief twinge of sympathy for him.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean -”

The woman sighs. “Whatever. What can I get you?”

Sokka tries a smile. “You guys do coffee here, right?”

Toph says, “For the love of -” and buries her face in her hands.

The woman sighs again. Maybe the smile was the wrong move. “If it’s on the board, we do it,” she says, pointing up to the menu above her. 

Sokka cranes his neck to look, mentally preparing himself for having to order an actual cup of tea _._ As if this ordeal could get any worse. 

While he’s reading, someone - Gloomy Girl’s long-suffering colleague, presumably - says, “I’ll take this one, Mai.”

“I don’t mind -”

“Yeah, but I do.”

Gloomy Girl - Mai - sighs _again_ and finally says, “Fine. Your funeral.”

And then the guy clears his throat, and Sokka looks back down from the menu.

It takes him a second to finally match the too-familiar uniform with the dozen times he’s seen it on his bedroom floor, but Sokka eventually manages to spit out, “Zuko?”

Zuko lifts a hand in an awkward, endearing little wave. “Hello.”

He’s smiling, subtle and shy, and leaning on the counter in a way that makes Sokka think, for a split second before the rational side of his brain catches up with the boy-stupid side, that he’s coming in for a kiss. 

(He realises, just in time, that that’s not the case, but he also realises that he would’ve let it happen. He would’ve let Zuko kiss him in the middle of his uncle’s tea shop, and he would’ve kissed him back and gotten himself and Toph banned. He’s scared of the part of himself that says it would be worth it.)

“So,” Toph says, and Sokka comes back out of his own head. “Coffee?”

Sokka doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at Zuko’s smile and the blink-and-you’ll-miss-it laughter in his eyes as he tells her, “Yes, we’ve got coffee.”

Toph grins, and they launch into a negotiation of what Zuko can and cannot do in terms of level of extravagance - this is a _tea_ shop, after all - and the whole time, Sokka can’t bring himself to look away from him.

He doesn’t even realise he’s staring until Zuko calls over the Floating Waitress to direct Toph to a seat, and turns to him to ask, “What about you?”

Sokka blinks at him. “I - what do you recommend?”

“I thought you wanted coffee?”

Sokka feels heat creep up into his cheeks. “I do, but - I don’t know. What’s good here? What do you like?”

For a second, Zuko looks like he’s going to say something different, but then he shakes his head, like he’s thought better of it, and tells Sokka, “The, um, calming jasmine is my favourite.”

“Okay,” Sokka says, and he swears he sees Zuko’s cheeks turn pink when he smiles at him. “So I’ll get a coffee, and a cup of calming jasmine tea.”

Zuko glances behind himself. “Mai, can you -”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

Sokka glances around himself, but Toph is nowhere to be seen, so he reaches into his jacket to fish out his wallet. Typical. The one day Toph offers to pay, she gets whisked away by some fancy-footed waitress -

"Oh, hey, no," Zuko says. He reaches out a hand to cover Sokka’s, and there's that damn _smile_ again, raising the hair on the back of Sokka's neck. "On the house."

Sokka raises an eyebrow at him. "You can do that?"

"No, but what's the point of nepotism if you can't exploit it every once in a while?"

Sokka laughs, and Zuko grins at him, and then Sokka can feel himself drifting further across the boundary of the counter into Zuko’s space. He knows he shouldn’t, because society has rules and the Jasmine Dragon has rules and _they_ have rules, but he can’t stop it. He can see himself, like he’s watching from outside his own body, about to make the world’s most magnetic mistake.

So he catches himself, stops it from happening. Stops himself from ruining things by making them complicated.

He draws back, and pretends to browse the bakery display just for something to do with his eyes that isn’t staring at Zuko’s mouth.

“Do you guys make these here?” he asks.

“Um, yes and no?” Zuko says. “We have a couple of basics we make in-house, but the fancy stuff is Azula. A couple days a week she comes in and makes pastries with Uncle. Well - I say _with,_ I mean she comes in and makes them herself while Uncle talks at her. I think you’d like him.”

Sokka looks up at him. “Who?”

“Uncle,” Zuko says. His voice is gone quiet, and the tips of his ears are pink. “I think he’d like you, too, for the record.”

Gloomy G- _Mai_ mutters something under her breath that Sokka can’t hear, but it looks like Zuko does. His brow pinches and his lips purse, and Sokka has to wonder if these two even like each other.

“What did she say?” Sokka leans across the counter to whisper, and immediately regrets it when he catches the scent of Zuko’s skin. Jasmine and burnt sugar and six different kinds of intoxicating. Maybe they shouldn’t see each other in public.

Zuko doesn’t answer straight away, and when he does, all he manages is, “She, um -”

“I said I have your drinks,” Mai huffs, and passes three take-away cups across the counter to him. “Here.”

“Oh,” Sokka says. “Thank you.”

Mai says nothing, and turns her back on him again. 

Sokka takes his coffee and leaves Zuko with the third cup. Subtlety has never been his strong suit, though, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when Zuko calls his name the second his back is turned.

“You forgot your tea,” Zuko says. 

When Sokka turns back to look at him, he’s got this puzzled frown on his face, just like the one he wore the day Sokka asked him to catsit. Sokka shoos the memory away, because he knows if he thinks about that conversation and the kiss that came after it, _complicated_ won’t even begin to cover how he feels - and that’s not a bear he wants to poke in the middle of a tea shop.

“You said it’s your favourite?” Sokka asks.

“Yeah, it is.”

“So it’s for you, jerk,” Sokka says. “Call it my treat. I’ll even pay for it.”

“No, Sokka, I meant what I -”

He _knows_ Zuko meant what he said about it being on the house, but he also knows he doesn’t want to hear it. He takes the three steps back to the counter and sets the coffee down to free up his hands. He digs out his wallet again, and stares Zuko right in the eye as he stuffs half its contents into the tip jar.

And then, because he has no self control and he knows it’ll make Zuko blush, we winks. 

“I’ll try the tea next time,” he says. “See you tomorrow, Zuko.”

“I’ll - you - tomorrow, yeah, okay,” Zuko says. His face is flushed pink in that way that makes Sokka feel electric every time he manages to bring it out. He walks away, though, because he’s not sure what he’ll do if he spends any more time looking at Zuko.

Toph is still talking to the Floating Waitress when he approaches her table.

“If you’re finished flirting,” Sokka says, “our break is up in ten minutes, and I don’t want to give Piandao a reason to assign me another presentation.”

Toph takes her coffee, and says under her breath but not quite deep enough, “You’re one to talk.”

“I heard th-”

“You’re Sokka, right?” The Floating Waitress turns a megawatt smile on him.

He blinks at her. “I’m - yes, I’m Sokka.”

The Floating Waitress hums. She looks him up and down, her smile still dialed to eleven, and Sokka feels - exposed. Like she’s identifying all his weaknesses just from a cursory glance.

She says, clearly more to herself than anyone else, “I don’t see it.”

And then she’s gone, floating away behind the counter to whisper with Gloomy Mai. When Sokka follows her path with his eyes, he finds Zuko vanished.

He turns back to Toph. “Let’s get out of here.”

* * *

The coffee helps a little, and so does the one he has with lunch, but whatever positive effects they have wear off again by the time he makes it home after work.

Tuesday is Aang and Katara’s visiting day with Momo, so he’s got that to look forward to in a couple of hours, but the second he gets through the door the first and only thing he wants to do is take a nap.

Suki is at the breakfast bar/island/miscellaneous kitchen surface when he gets in, lesson-planning for a seminar she’s running next weekend. She swivels on the stool like a Bond villain, Momo curled in her lap, and tells him, “You don’t look so hot.”

Sokka heaves a sigh as he kicks off his shoes. “Why does everyone keep saying that? Do I have something on my face?”

“No,” Suki frowns at him. “You just look kinda tired, that’s all. Rough day at the salt mines?”

Work was fine, really, and he tells Suki as much, but he still wants to curl up in bed, even with all the extra caffeine he’s pumped into his system today. 

“I’m gonna lie down for a while,” he says. 

Momo hears _lie down_ and his ears prick up. He lifts his head and, spying Sokka on his way to his room, vacates Suki’s lap to follow him.

“I see how it is,” Suki says. She rolls her eyes and turns back to the counter.

Sokka sets a timer on his phone so he doesn’t sleep through the entire evening and end up awake at ass o’clock in the morning, and lets Momo burrow under the blankets with him. Momo falls asleep as soon as he’s settled against Sokka’s side, but it takes Sokka a little longer to drift off. When he does, though, it’s dreamless and deep.

He wakes up two hours later, feeling worse than before. Not by much, but enough that he notices.

He’s about to say _fuck it_ and roll over into sleep again, but Aang and Katara are early and buzzing from downstairs to be let into the building.

(Katara has a key, and they used to just let themselves in, but after one too many just-out-of-the-shower encounters, they decided it was probably better to announce themselves rather than roll the dice on whether Sokka’s wearing pants or not.)

Suki smacks her fist against his bedroom door.

“Rise and shine, babe!” she calls. “It’s showtime!”

Sokka drags himself out of bed, pulls on a fresh shirt, and takes Momo into his arms, ready to hand him over once Aang is over the threshold.

Hellos are the same as they always are - lots of hugging and purring and _tell me about your week_ s and _did you do something with your hair?_ s - and the rest of the evening goes pretty much as usual, too, save for Sokka’s foggy head and inexplicably stiff joints making him just _slightly_ distracted.

His condition improves after dinner. He’s still not all the way there, but he feels better with a full stomach. He’s not sure what’s wrong, exactly, other than a general feeling of being _off,_ but he’s always believed there’s nothing that can’t be cured by stealing dumplings from his sister’s plate when she’s not looking.

When the evening is starting to wind down, and Katara’s stopped speaking to him because Aang told her about the dumplings, Sokka’s phone rings. He excuses himself to his room to take it. As he’s closing the door behind him, he hears Suki call out, “Tell Zuko I said hi!”

He’s not sure how she knows it’s Zuko, but it is. He’s also not sure what the tight feeling in his chest is, but that seems determined to _be,_ too.

He leans back against the door and presses the phone to his ear. “Hey, Zuko.”

“Hi,” Zuko says. His voice isn’t how Sokka expects it - it’s quiet, far away, cheerless.

Sokka opens his mouth to speak, but his thoughts are struck down by a squeal of laughter from the other room.

“Do you have company?” Zuko asks. “I’m not interrupting, am I?”

“No, you’re fine, it’s just Katara and Aang over to see Momo,” Sokka explains, and he can’t help his smile. “Suki says hi, by the way.”

Zuko says, “Hi, Suki,” and Sokka swears he can _hear_ his blush. The feeling in his chest gets tighter.

“I’ll tell her,” Sokka promises. “What’s up?”

“Do you have a minute to - to talk? I don’t want to drag you away from your night.” There’s that strange morose tone to his voice again, and Sokka doesn’t like it. 

“Is everything okay? Do you need me to -”

“No, it’s alright, it’s just -” Zuko sighs. “I can’t come over tomorrow.”

“Oh,” Sokka says. “How come?”

“I have, um - I have a date?”

The tightness in Sokka’s chest constricts further, but this time it’s not comforting, it’s not warm and snug like swaddling. It’s a sudden, sharp squeeze around his ribs, punching the air from his lungs, a snake around his heart.

“A date?” Sokka asks. Somehow, against all odds, he manages to sound normal. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

“It’s, um, some guy Ty Lee knows,” Zuko says. “His name’s Jet, I think. He’s some kind of activist. I don’t know. Ty Lee wouldn’t give me much to go on, so I’m basically going in blind.”

“So what’s the - the plan, or whatever? What are you doing?” Sokka asks. He’s not sure if it’s because of whatever affliction he’s been dealing with all day or something else he doesn’t want to name, but he’s finding it difficult to enjoy this conversation.

“It’s a double date,” Zuko says, and there’s that word again, _date._ Sokka hates it, and he doesn’t know why. “Ty Lee and Mai, me and - and Jet. Ty Lee got the four of us a table at that fancy new place downtown. I don’t know what it’s called, the one with the chandeliers and the big sign in cursive.”

In spite of everything, Sokka cracks a smile. “I know the one.”

The line goes quiet again. Sokka’s brain scrambles to stitch together a coherent thought to fill the silence, but he comes up empty. His head feels full of cotton wool.

And then Zuko says, “It’s okay, right?”

Oh, if Sokka thought his mind was blank before, it’s _nothing_ compared to this.

“What do you mean?” he asks, just to buy some time to figure it out himself.

“I mean -” Zuko sighs again. “I mean, you don’t mind, right? If I go?”

And isn’t that the million dollar question?

Does Sokka mind if Zuko doesn’t come over to see him? Does Sokka mind if Zuko goes to dinner with some guy his coworker knows? Does Sokka mind if Zuko sees other people, even though Sokka hasn’t even thought about dating since the night they met?

Does Sokka mind if Zuko doesn’t choose him?

He decides he doesn’t mind. It’s the logical choice. It’s not like he has any right to mind if Zuko goes out with someone else - and it’s not even someone _else,_ not really, because Zuko’s not going out with _him_ to begin with - because this thing they have is casual and temporary. It’s great, and Sokka likes it a whole lot, but it’s not forever. It’s not forever.

So Sokka doesn’t mind. He doesn’t mind at all. And even if he did, which he doesn’t, it wouldn’t matter, because Zuko isn’t _his._

“Why would I mind?”

“No reason,” Zuko says, distance creeping back into his voice. Then, “Listen, I have to go.”

“Oh, I - okay.”

“I just wanted to, um, let you know what’s going on,” Zuko says. “I didn’t want you to think I was standing you up.”

The feeling in Sokka’s chest loosens, but not so much that he doesn’t feel it. He’s starting to think it’s not going away any time soon.

“There’s a dirty joke in there somewhere,” Sokka says. “I just can’t find it.”

“Stop looking,” Zuko sighs again, but this time, finally, he sounds fond rather than stressed. “I’ll see you, Sokka.”

“Hey, Zuko, wait,” Sokka says, before he can think better of it.

“Yeah?” There’s something light in Zuko’s voice, something so close to hope that Sokka thinks he might go mad at the sound of it.

“Call me after. I want to hear all about it.”

Zuko is quiet, and for a moment, Sokka thinks that might’ve been the wrong thing to say.

Eventually, Zuko says, “I - yeah, okay,” and Sokka’s still not sure that it wasn’t.

Sokka doesn’t know what else to say. For the first time, he doesn’t want to talk to Zuko. Everything he’s feeling - everything he’s _not_ feeling - is confusing and complicated, and he doesn’t want to talk to Zuko, because he knows he won’t make it any easier to understand. Fires inside houses and all that.

“That’s - that’s all, I guess,” Zuko says. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Enjoy your night. Say hi to Momo for me.”

Sokka says, “Bye, Zuko,” to a dead line.

The sound of vague chatter from the other room leaks in through the door, but Sokka’s room is almost oppressive in its silence. It’s not true silence, obviously, because he can still hear Suki telling some story from the weekend, but it feels thick and heavy like the real thing. He takes a minute to compose himself, plastering on a smile when he catches sight of his own sullen expression in the mirror. 

The change in his mood doesn’t go unnoticed when he slips back out. Katara looks at him with big fretful eyes, and while he doesn’t explain the contents of his call, he does take the hand she offers to him across the couch cushions. He tells her he’s fine, he’s just tired, and she squeezes once, twice, and lets him go.

He tells Suki, “Zuko says hi,” and that’s the last time he speaks until Aang and Katara are leaving.

It’s not that he’s devastated or - or _heartbroken,_ or anything melodramatic like that. He wants the best for Zuko. He wants Zuko to find love, and happiness, and all those things people write sonnets about - and if this Jet guy is somewhere he wants to look, then Sokka’s not going to stop him. 

Not that he wants to stop him, obviously, because he has no right to want something like that. And even if he _did,_ he _wouldn’t,_ because Zuko is his friend and he deserves everything good in the world. He deserves more than a couple of random hookups a week with a guy he met in a bar three months ago. He deserves more than phone calls at weird hours and bullshit text conversations and an overly-clingy cat.

And maybe he’ll find _more_ with Jet. Sokka just wishes he could forget what it might mean for their - whatever it is. Arrangement. Situation. 

He wishes he could forget that Zuko finding _more_ means the end of _them_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i split this chapter into two parts for maximum emotional impact, so expect part 2 of sokka's week from hell in the next few days!!
> 
> you can read zuko's pov of the phone call [here](https://goldrushzukka.tumblr.com/post/639980022136012800/if-u-write-zukos-pov-of-the-phone-call-i-will/)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to sokka's week from hell, part 2!
> 
> warning for descriptions of illness including vomiting 
> 
> recommended listening for this chapter:  
> the harold song by kesha  
> august by taylor swift  
> 

Sokka wakes up on Wednesday and he feels like death warmed up.

At first, when he’s crawling out of bed, he thinks it’s psychological. Some kind of emotional fallout from his conversation with Zuko last night, manifesting itself through clogged airways and nausea. But then he makes it to the bathroom, and his stomach gives out into the sink because he can’t make it to the toilet in time, and that theory goes out the window.

He loses everything he ate for dinner last night, and probably lunch and breakfast too, and sinks to the floor once it’s all up. He drags himself over to sit next to the toilet in case there’s more. He retches a couple of times, but he’s got nothing left to lose. It’s another god-knows-how-long before he finds the strength to get back on his feet.

He stumbles back into his room, careful to avoid eye contact with the mess he left in the sink, and uses a clammy hand to wake his phone. He’s slept through his alarm already, so there’s no hope of getting to work on time, even if he didn’t have - whatever it is he has. A bug? Flu? The plague?

There’s a message from Toph, sent over an hour ago. It takes him a long time to read it, and even longer to type out a reply.

**[Toph // 09:26]** Are you coming in today?

**[Sokka // 11:02]** i’m sicjk

**[Toph // 11:06]** And? What about me?

His head feels - _blurry_ is the only word that comes to mind, which can’t be a good sign. There’s an ache inside his skull that feels both dull and sharp at once, and his eyes won’t focus for longer than a few seconds at a time. His stomach growls, and he honestly can’t tell if it’s from hunger after losing all of its contents, or general contempt for him as a person.

His phone screen is like a floodlight as he tries to find Piandao’s number to call in sick, and when he finally dials, he’s convinced his eyes are sunburned. 

He makes it through to Piandao’s voicemail - though, really, with the way his brain is processing information right now, it could be the man himself - and croaks out _something_ that resembles an apology. In truth, Sokka forgets every word out of his mouth the minute it’s past his lips. He’s also pretty sure that the message is still recording when he rushes into the bathroom again to dry-heave over the toilet. 

He’s back on the bathroom floor again when he calls Suki.

She picks up on the fourth ring. “Sokka?”

“Suki,” he wheezes, “I’m sick. I might be dying.”

“What’s going on.” She doesn’t say it like a question. Sokka can imagine her face right now, blurry and out of focus, but still rolling her eyes and pursing her lips. Maybe she’s holding an apologetic finger up to whoever she’s training, stepping away to deal with her idiot best friend calling in the middle of a session.

“I’m - dying.”

“What are your _symptoms,_ Sokka?”

It takes him a second to remember what a symptom is. Apparently, though, having the plague hasn’t destroyed his memories of the countless medical dramas Katara used to make him watch with her.

“Shortness of breath,” he says, and feels very Doctor McDreamy for a moment. “Headache, a lot of sweating, um - fever? I think? And I think I forgot how to read? Oh, vomiting, too, there’s lots of that -”

On the phone, Suki sighs. “I’ll be home in an hour. Can you stay alive until then?”

“Maybe,” Sokka says.

“You have the flu,” Suki huffs. “Stop being dramatic.”

The length of time between Suki hanging up on him and Suki finding him leaning against the wall with his head resting on the toilet paper holder is impossible to gauge. It feels simultaneously like an eternity and the blink of an eye. 

When she comes in, there’s two of her.

Sokka waves, and the Sukis say, _“Oh, sweetheart.”_

They both crouch in front of him, but he only feels the press of one hand to his forehead.

“Did you eat anything?” the Sukis ask.

Sokka shakes his head no.

“Good,” the Sukis say. “That means I can put you to bed without worrying about finding you dead after choking on your own vomit. C’mon, up you get.”

One of the Sukis gets an arm around him and pulls him up onto his feet. He loses his balance - if he ever had it to begin with - pretty much immediately, and the Sukis have to sit him on the toilet seat while he regains it. His vision swims for a second, and he tries to blink it away, but it’s no good. 

It takes a while - or maybe it doesn’t, who knows - but Sokka makes it back into bed. The fall onto his back is a little disorienting, so he squeezes his eyes shut for a minute. When he opens them again, the room isn’t spinning anymore, and there’s only one Suki. She’s leaning over him, fussing with the blanket, trying to tuck him in.

“This is my fault,” she says, and he can’t really tell if he’s meant to hear it. “I probably brought something home from Ying’s kid on Monday, and now you’re gonna be stuck on your own all night when I go back.”

“Momo,” Sokka says. Maybe asks? He’s having trouble telling the difference.

“I’ll get him in a second,” Suki assures him. “Let me just - I’ll get you some water.”

Suki disappears again. She comes back an eternity later with water and an empty bowl, and Momo on her shoulder. Momo leaps from her shoulder onto Sokka’s bed, stalking up the length of his body until he reaches Sokka’s chest and collapses onto it. Sokka barely feels it.

“See how the water goes, and then maybe we can talk toast,” Suki tells him.

He looks up at her where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. “Could I get a straw?”

“No.”

“Fair enough,” Sokka says, and takes a sip of water. His hand shakes. 

He takes another sip, and another, and then sets the glass down on his bedside table. When he looks back, Suki is gone again.

He falls asleep after a while, and she’s there. In his dream, she’s rubbing his back and making shushing sounds while he digs himself a tunnel through to the other side of a mountain of Kleenex.

She’s there when he wakes up, too, and she’s still rubbing his back and making shushing sounds, this time while she holds the bowl under his chin and he tries to figure out if he’s going to throw up again. He doesn’t, in the end, but it’s a close thing.

That’s how he spends most of his day: drifting in and out of consciousness, unable to tell dreams from reality. Sometimes Suki is there, and she seems very real, but then she does something she wouldn’t do in real life, like try to talk to him about his personal phone calls, and Sokka isn’t sure if he’s awake or not. He’s also not sure what exactly he tells her about said phone calls.

At some point, the nausea stops. He manages to keep down a full glass of water, and then Suki gives him a single slice of dry toast, and that stays down too. He counts time in chunks of Netflix watched on his work laptop. 

Piandao calls in the afternoon to find out if he’ll be back tomorrow, and Sokka hands the phone to Suki to explain his condition. She gets him the rest of the week off and brings him another slice of toast.

The next time she comes in - Sokka figures it must be evening time, maybe, judging by the light from the window - she’s changed her clothes. Sokka doesn’t remember what she was wearing before, just that it was different. 

“I’m heading over to Ying’s soon,” she tells him, perched at the end of the bed. “There’s leftovers from last night in the fridge if you want them, but go easy. They should be fine to throw in the microwave.”

“When are you coming back?” Sokka knows he sounds needy. He could do without the pitying look on Suki’s face, though.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “I told Ying what’s going on, so she’ll try to be back as early as she can - but you know how this shit goes. I’ll do my best to be home by midnight.”

“Okay,” Sokka frowns. 

She pats his knee, but his sensory processing is so fucked up that he thinks he wouldn’t even feel it if he wasn’t watching it happen. 

“I’m sorry I can’t stay,” she says. “I tried Toph, but she told me to get lost, and Aang and Katara are both working.”

“I need more friends,” Sokka muses. 

Suki gets a funny look on her face then, like she’s got half an idea and she’s trying to catch the other end of it. She's still got that look when she walks out of the room, phone in hand.

With the closed door between them, Sokka can’t make out any of the words - but based on Suki’s voice, it’s not a very pleasant conversation. She sounds pleading, which is not a common tone for her, like she’s trying to talk someone out of or into something, Sokka can’t tell which. Mixed in with the rest of the indistinct words, Sokka hears his sister’s name, followed by what he thinks must be, “Call me when you get this.”

She comes back in a little while after the sounds of conversation end. This time she’s wearing a jacket and holding her keys. They jingle as she swings a ring around her finger.

“I’m so sorry, Sokka,” she says. Sokka looks at her, more of a blur in the shape of his friend than an actual person, and smiles weakly.

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’ll be fine. I’ll just - I’ll sleep it off.”

Suki flicks on the lamp at his bedside. The room is bathed in yellow.

“I’ll be home before you know it,” she promises. She blows him a kiss, and then she’s out the door and Sokka is alone.

The one good thing about being this particular kind of sick, it turns out, is that Sokka doesn’t have to think about things. He can’t string together a coherent enough thought to dwell on anything. It’s just - existing.

It’s vague comprehension of some legal drama - or possibly workplace sitcom - on the screen in front of him, it’s the steady purr of Momo beside him, it’s drifting in and out of sleep without much difference between the two.

The dreams are...strange, to say the least.

He dreams of the jingle of Suki’s keys, the quiet tinkling symphony of metal on metal on metal-coloured plastic, and the concert they put on to benefit flu-sufferers whose names begin with S. The songs are a little samey, but it’s not a bad show, all things considered.

In the legal drama workplace sitcom, two women are talking in one of those prison-visitor stalls, where there’s a bulletproof screen between them and they talk through the kind of phone no real person has had for a quarter of a century.

He dreams of Momo on his hind legs, as tall as him, scratching at the inside of his bedroom door. His claws are big enough to really do some damage, but they go dull before he can make it all the way through. He never thinks to use the handle.

In the legal drama workplace sitcom, one of the women from earlier is standing in a courtroom giving a speech. No one else in the courtroom seems to be taking her very seriously, which Sokka thinks is insane, because no one wears a pink skirt-suit like that unless they mean business.

The headaches come and go, depending mostly on how loud the colours on screen are. The sound is off, because that was worse, and the story is a little hard to follow when he can’t read the subtitles, but he thinks he’s getting the general idea. He drinks from the water glass on the nightstand every time he remembers it’s there, but his sips get smaller and smaller as the glass starts to run empty. He even remembers to take the medication Suki left for him, but that’s not a repeat appointment.

He dreams of Suki coming home early. Her key scrapes in the door, and she shuffles around the living room on heavier feet than usual, and the legal drama workplace sitcom is still on. Suki comes in to check on him, and when she steps into the lamplight she’s not Suki anymore, she’s Zuko.

Zuko-Suki replaces his water glass with a full one, and then it’s not Zuko-Suki, it’s just Zuko, and he’s wiping hair out of Sokka’s eyes. The touch is soft and cool on Sokka’s burning skin, and he dreams of a sigh escaping his lips. Fingertips along his brow turn into the feather-light brush of a knuckle down his cheek, and he dreams himself leaning into it.

The Zuko dream whispers something Sokka can’t quite catch, and then he vanishes with the sound of feline feet on the floor and a door closing.

Sokka doesn’t remember waking, not like the other times, but next thing he knows, the credits are rolling on the legal drama workplace sitcom.

When he closes his eyes again, he dreams of a real jasmine dragon, a great yellow beast, flying infinitely past his window. Parts of it seem to disappear into the golden streaks of the sunset sky.

The fever breaks at some point between spells of wakefulness. 

He opens his eyes, and suddenly he no longer feels like his brain is cooking. He’s still too hot, because of the extra blankets Suki wrapped him in to help with his chills, but he’s not being boiled alive in his own skull anymore. He worms his way out, drains the glass on his nightstand - when did he fill this? - and feels stronger than he has all day. Not strong enough to get out of bed yet, but enough that he can notice and appreciate the focus of his eyes and the clarity of his thoughts.

He sets the glass down, empty again, and feels around himself for Momo. He’s not there tucked against Sokka’s side, so maybe he’s lost in the folds of the blankets - no, not there either. He’s nowhere. 

Panic pushes him to his feet, but no, the windows are closed, so he can’t have gotten out that way either.

He sticks a clammy, socked foot under the bed and whispers, “Momo?” to no answer. He doesn’t trust himself to be able to get back up if he goes down on his knees to check for himself.

There’s only so many places a cat can hide in a room this size so he sets the ideas of search and rescue aside for now. He staggers to the bathroom, and only remembers the state he left it in as he’s opening the door.

The smell is the first thing to hit him. It’s overwhelming, even to his stuffed sinuses, and it’s - not what he expects. It smells _clean,_ like bleach and citrus disinfectant. He braces himself before he looks at the sink, but sure enough, the nightmare he left there is gone. A pair of yellow rubber gloves have taken the place of his mess, draped over the curve of the now-gleaming faucet.

He _really_ owes Suki for that one.

He takes care of his bladder and shuffles back into his room. His stomach howls, and he frowns down at it until he remembers what Suki said about leftovers. He grabs his phone - it tells him it’s a little after ten, he has no new messages - and hopes the adrenaline from actually _having_ an appetite again will carry him all the way to the microwave.

He steps into the living room, and there’s Momo, asleep on the couch with Suki -

Except, when Sokka blinks, it’s not Suki home early. It’s Zuko.

It’s Zuko, rumpled in a deep crimson dress shirt that makes his eyes stand out like cut topaz, startling awake at the sound of Sokka’s clumsy footsteps.

It’s Zuko, sitting up and squinting at the time on his watch.

It’s Zuko, glancing around himself, a soft smile breaking onto his face when his eyes settle on Sokka in the doorway.

“What are you doing here?” Sokka croaks. He feels the ghost of _something_ at his hairline.

Zuko says, “Suki called me,” like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Sokka can feel Zuko’s eyes on him, assessing his condition, and self-consciousness creeps up the back of his neck. Zuko’s gaze lingers on his bare chest for just a split second too long, and he tries to remember if he was wearing a shirt to catch the splash-back from his expulsion this morning.

“When did you get here?” His voice is a hoarse, rasping thing from disuse.

“A couple of hours ago,” Zuko says. “I checked on you when I got in, but you were kind of out of it.”

The gears in Sokka’s head shake off their dust and grind together while he tries to process this. If Zuko’s been here for a couple of hours already, since before Sokka’s fever broke, then -

“Zuko,” Sokka says. “What about your date? What about - what’s his name?”

“Jet,” Zuko supplies. “And you’re - this was more important.”

Zuko stands, and the next thing Sokka knows, there are gentle hands tugging on his, guiding him to sit. Zuko’s fingers brush the soft skin on the inside of Sokka’s wrist, just above his pulse point, and he feels lightheaded - and for the first time all day, he doesn’t have a fever to blame for it.

Zuko leaves him on the couch with Momo stretching to bump his little head against Sokka’s hand. He’s doing - _something_ in the kitchen as he says, “Suki called just before dinner was served, so I got them to give me my soup to-go.”

“You -” Sokka’s mind reels, trying to catch up. “You just walked out?”

Sokka looks at him, unsure what to expect. Shame, maybe. Remorse for wasting Jet’s time and Ty Lee’s help.

What he gets is an apologetic blush and a sheepish little smile, turned down to the floor. Zuko says to his feet, “I wanted to be here in case you needed - anything.”

 _He chose me,_ Sokka thinks, and suddenly he can’t look at him, because he doesn’t know what he’ll say if Zuko looks back.

The microwave goes off with a _ding,_ and a minute of swearing at cupboards and shuffling around the kitchen later, Sokka has a bowl of hot soup in his lap. 

“It’s not as, um, _nutritious_ as Uncle’s jook,” Zuko says, “but it probably tastes better.”

Sokka eats his soup - tomato, judging by the colour, but he can’t really taste it at first - and still doesn’t look at Zuko. He’s sure he’s being rude, but he’s hoping Zuko will give him the benefit of the doubt on account of being plague-ridden.

Zuko looks at _him,_ though, even more than Sokka looks away. From the other end of the couch, Zuko looks at him, and Sokka can feel his eyes, watching and waiting and unrelenting. It’s not uncomfortable, per se, it’s more - expectant. Anticipatory. Like there’s something someone’s supposed to say or do, and it’s going to happen any second. Sokka doesn’t know what it is, but he knows that the charge in the air between them isn’t the usual kind.

The soup is good, once the heat of it clears him up enough to taste it. It’s thick and warm and there’s enough pepper that Sokka gets a kick from it even in his condition. He feels it all the way down his throat and into his stomach, where it mixes with the prickly nervousness he’s feeling from Zuko’s attention.

He sets the bowl down on the table and asks, eyes stuck on his hands in Momo’s fur where he’s climbed into his lap, “How was the date?”

“It was good, actually,” Zuko says. “Jet seems like a nice guy. He’s very - uh - passionate, I guess you could call it? He’s a climate and human rights activist.”

The spines of Sokka’s nervousness turn to daggers.

He grits his teeth and looks at Zuko, and for the first time since that very first night in the Flying Bison, it hurts to see him smile.

“What did he say?” Sokka asks. “When you left?”

Zuko frowns, and somehow that’s worse.

“I said it was an emergency,” Zuko says, “and he was - he was fine about it. He walked me out to make sure I got a taxi, and then -”

Zuko falters for a moment. He’s still looking at Sokka, but there’s something different in his eyes, something careful and withholding.

“And then what, Zuko?”

“And then he gave me his number,” Zuko says, voice flat and impenetrable, “and he asked if he could see me again.”

“And?” Sokka asks. “What did you say?”

“I said yes. We’re getting lunch on Sunday.”

The daggers are swords now, and Sokka’s heart sinks down, down, down, right to the hilt.

“I’m - that’s great, Zuko,” Sokka says, and the words leave his mouth feeling sour. “I’m happy for you.”

Zuko’s cheeks flush pink. He smiles, and it hurts again, or maybe still, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Thanks, Sokka.”

And - here’s the thing. It’s not a lie. Sokka _is_ happy for Zuko. He’s putting himself out there, he’s trying the whole dating thing, and who knows, maybe he’ll even get to try the boyfriend thing - and Sokka wants that for Zuko. He wants it _desperately_ for Zuko. So he’s happy for him, he really is.

But he’s sick, so he doesn’t feel it. _Are you happy for Zuko?_ is not the same question as _do you feel happy right now?_

“I should go,” Zuko says. He stands, wiping cat hair from his slacks. “I just came to check you were okay, and Suki said to make sure you ate, but you seem like you’re doing fine now, so I’ll -”

“Oh,” Sokka says, sadder than he means but not as much as he feels, “I - are you sure?”

“If I don’t come home after a first date, I’ll never hear the end of it from Azula,” Zuko insists. He’s got a hand on his jacket folded over the back of the couch when he looks at Sokka and freezes. “Unless - unless you want me to stay?”

 _Yes,_ Sokka thinks.

His mouth, traitor that it is, says, “No, you’re right, you should - you should get home. It’s late, Azula’s probably worried sick.”

It’s not meant as a joke, but Zuko cracks a smile anyway, and it _hurts,_ like a tree by the roadside hurts the concrete when its roots grow too big.

Zuko shrugs on his jacket and buries his hands in his pockets. The fabric distends on one side where Zuko closes one hand into a fist. His eyes dart to Sokka’s, quick like a secret, and then away again.

He leans forward - too close too close not close enough _too close_ \- and combs his fingers through the fur on Momo’s belly. Momo doesn’t react, except to look up at Sokka.

“Huh.” The corners of Zuko’s mouth turn down.

“He’s had a weird day,” Sokka says, but he’s not sure it’s the right answer to the question Zuko didn’t ask. 

“Yeah,” Zuko says. “Well, I’ll - I’ll see you, I guess. I hope you feel better, Sokka.”

There’s so much sincerity in his voice, so much earnestness, Sokka almost can’t stand it. Here’s Zuko, with his heart of gold and iron-forged kindness, wishing him good health - and Sokka can’t even feel happy about him meeting someone, because all he can think is that soon he won’t be the last person Zuko kissed.

“Goodnight, Zuko,” Sokka says. He doesn’t get up to see him to the door.

“I’ll text you when I’m home,” Zuko promises, and Sokka’s heart skewers itself on a second sword.

Zuko’s smile when Sokka says, “Thank you for the soup,” is a third.

The door closing behind him is a fourth.

The silence as Sokka shuffles back to bed is every single one that remains.

* * *

Thursday and Friday pass in a blur of sleep and ibuprofen. 

Missing two days of life isn’t ideal, but it could be worse. It could be three lost days, or four, or five. Or it could be none, and Sokka could be stuck at home, sick but lucid and with nothing to do but overthink.

Katara switches shifts with one of the other residents and comes to check on him on Friday night. She cooks, she monitors his temperature and fluid intake, and most importantly, she gives Suki a break.

Katara makes the same stew their dad did when they were sick as kids, and it works like a charm. Sokka is half-convinced that most of its power is placebo, but it tastes like being eight years old again, and it’s _effective._

He starts to feel a little better by the time Katara’s packing up the leftovers to take with her to work in the morning, and by Saturday night, he almost feels like a real person again.

He’s curled up on the couch, under a blanket with Momo purring in his lap and the TV turned down low, when Suki drops onto the other end. She draws her knees up to her chest and balances a spoon across them while she wrestles with the lid of a pint of ice cream.

“What are we watching?” she asks.

“Not sure,” Sokka says. “I think it’s like an off-brand Hell’s Kitchen.”

Suki hums. She digs through the ice cream for cookie chunks, and Sokka stares at the screen, waiting. Waiting for her to say whatever it is that’s on the tip of her tongue.

Knock-off Gordon Ramsay cuts to commercial, and she finally breaks her silence.

“So,” she says, “Zuko was here on Wednesday.”

“Yeah,” Sokka agrees, because he was. “You called him, remember?”

“Did you talk to him?”

“No, he walked out on his date so he could bring me soup and sit in total silence,” Sokka says. “Yeah, we talked.”

Suki sighs. “No, I mean, like - did you _talk_ or did you just talk?”

Sokka looks at her. “What do you mean _talk?_ We talked.”

“Sokka,” she says, like it’s a replacement for _please._

“What are you looking for here, Suki?”

Suki doesn’t say anything for a long minute. She taps her spoon against her chin while she thinks, a habit Sokka usually thinks is cute but now feels like a doomsday countdown. And then, as Sokka watches her, she shoves a hand into the pocket of her hoodie and pulls out a second spoon. She offers it to him, and when he takes it, she extends the ice cream, too.

Once he’s three spoonfuls deep, she asks, “What did you and Zuko talk about?” 

So _that’s_ what this is.

This is their thing, since before they moved in together, before they even broke up. When there’s a difficult conversation that needs to be had, they sit on the couch and split a pint of ice cream while they hash out whatever the issue is. They’ve done this a thousand times for a thousand different problems, and there’s always resistance at first - which is the point of the ice cream. It’s a reward for open communication, and it’s something to focus on that isn’t the other person.

“Suki, I don’t -” Sokka starts, but there’s no point. This is their thing, and it’s their thing because it _works._ “What did I tell you when I had my fever? About - about talking to Zuko on Tuesday?”

Suki’s eyes roll up, remembering. “You said he was going on a blind date that his friend set up, and he asked you for advice, or -”

“Permission,” Sokka corrects. “He asked me if I was okay with it.”

Suki blinks at him. “Are you?”

“I thought I was,” Sokka says, but that’s not exactly true. “I mean, I was. I am. I want him to find someone. We both know this thing is temporary, so that means, you know, logically, it has to end at some point. It has to end somehow.”

“And that’s what you told him, on Tuesday?”

Sokka looks into the cardboard tub. “Not in so many words, but I think he got the idea. He went on the date, didn’t he?”

“Did he, though?”

He looks back up at her. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Suki says, “did he go on a date, or did he sit in a restaurant for half an hour and pick up on the second ring?”

This is where things get dangerous. This is where Suki starts to lead him down a path that’s not even worth considering, as tempting as it is, because it’s not grounded in reality. Sokka would know, he’s already looked at it from every angle.

“Suki, can we -” he starts. “He’s going out with him again tomorrow, so there’s no - let’s just not, okay? I want him to be happy. More than anything.”

“What about you, Sokka?”

“What about me?” Sokka’s brow pinches. “What’s it got to do with me?”

“Don’t you deserve to be happy, too?” Suki’s voice is soft now, too soft. Too gentle, too sympathetic. 

There’s no need for sympathy, is the thing. There’s nothing to sympathise with, because there’s no - no _turmoil,_ or whatever, Sokka just feels like shit because he’s sick and stuffing his face with half-thawed cookie chunks. He’s _fine._

“I’m happy,” he lies, and he knows she can tell. “I am. I’ll - I’ll find someone too. Eventually.”

“Sokka,” Suki says again, her eyes sad and knowing when he looks at her. “I really didn’t think I’d have to be the one to tell you this. You’ve been in love with Zuko for _weeks._ Months, maybe.”

And there it is. 

The elephant in the room, the monster under the bed, the twinge of pain that’s probably nothing but could be _something._

It should be a bombshell. It should be blowing Sokka’s mind, reshaping all of his memories and thoughts, it should leave him stunned and overwhelmed. It doesn’t.

It doesn’t, because he _knows._ He has known, for a while now, he’s just been putting it all in a box and hoping to forget where it’s buried. This isn’t a revelation, no matter how much Sokka wishes it were. Maybe it could’ve been, once, but he’s been falling for too long to remember when it started. 

Oh, but he knows where it ends. It’s already ending.

“Yeah,” he says, to Suki’s sad, sweet face, “I have.”

Suki blanches, like a straightforward admission isn’t what she was expecting. “You knew?”

“Of course I knew,” Sokka sighs. “God, how could I not? How did this happen? How did I manage to fuck up _casual sex?_ The whole point is that you can’t fuck it up!”

He throws his head back and slumps against the cushions, spoon abandoned in the now-empty ice cream tub. Momo startles with the sudden movement, and something slots into place in Sokka’s mind.

He lifts Momo by the shoulders and holds him at eye level.

“This is your fault,” he says. “You did this. If you weren’t so - so _friendly,_ Zuko would’ve fucked off weeks ago before I got attached.”

“It’s not the cat’s fault, Sokka,” Suki says. 

He sets Momo down again and looks at her. “Then it’s yours. You were working that night - the night I met him. You should’ve sent me home before I even sat down.”

“It’s not on me, either,” she says. “It’s no one’s _fault,_ Sokka, this is just how this shit works. It’s just - how it goes. You can’t blame anyone for the fact that you met a sweet guy and fell for him.”

“I have to,” Sokka says. “I have to blame someone, because if I don’t then - then it’s just me. It’s just me. I’m the idiot who crossed the line because I couldn’t keep my own feelings in check.”

That’s not quite right, though, because he hasn’t crossed any lines, he’s just - he let them get blurry. Told himself it was fine, because Zuko isn’t his boyfriend and isn’t going to _be_ his boyfriend, so why shouldn’t he give him a key to his apartment? Why shouldn’t he let him into all the weird parts of his life? Why shouldn’t he get drunk and lonely at a wedding and call him just to hear his voice?

But he can see the lines clearly now, because Zuko’s date with Jet tomorrow is a reminder of where they drew them that night in the Bison. This is casual and uncomplicated and no-strings-attached, and _this_ \- the chick-flick ice cream night, the horrible twist of guilt and jealousy in his gut, the sting of tears in his throat - is exactly why it needs to be. It needs to be casual and uncomplicated and no-strings-attached, because if it’s not, then Sokka has to spend his whole weekend having terrible conversations like this one.

Suki doesn’t say anything for a long time. She rests a hand on his knee, and he wants to take it in his and hold it, but he can’t. He knows Suki is probably the one that got him sick in the first place, but she doesn’t need this. 

“You should talk to him,” she says, finally. 

And she’s right. He should’ve talked to Zuko about this weeks ago, before the breeze of a crush became the hurricane of - something bigger. Maybe then he could’ve nipped it in the bud and avoided all of this. But he was stupid, and selfish, and he liked the rush of the fall too much to stop it, and now the ground is coming up to meet him.

“Yeah,” he says. “But I don’t want to.”

 _If I talk to him,_ Sokka thinks, _then it’s over._

It’s already over, he knows that. And it’s weird, because really, what is there to finish? This thing was never serious - at least, it was never meant to be - so why does it feel so _big?_ Why does it feel so much like a break-up?

He knows that answer, too.

“So don’t do it tonight,” Suki says. “Call him tomorrow, and just - just talk to him.”

That sounds...reasonable, actually. He needs some time to clear his head, sleep on it, collect his thoughts. Figure out what the hell he’s going to say that won’t send Zuko running out of his life completely. It won’t be fun, and it won’t be easy, but it’s for the best.

“That’s a good idea,” he tells her. He stands then, kicking off the blanket and scooping Momo into his arms. “I’m gonna go to bed. It’s - thanks, Suki. For making me talk.”

“What’s a live-in ex-girlfriend for?” she smiles at him, warm and kinder than he’s earned. “G’night, Sokka.”

 _For the best,_ he tells himself. He doesn’t even say it out loud and his mouth tastes sour.

* * *

Saturday night into Sunday is not restful.

To be fair, Sokka is still sick, so he doesn’t expect it to be, but it would’ve been nice if his brain had gotten the same message as his immune system and just shut down for a while.

He wakes - if you could call it that - with the birds at an ungodly hour, and he knows that’s it for him. He’s not getting back to sleep even if he tries, and _boy,_ does he try. He stays in bed, eyes screwed stubbornly shut, until Momo pesters him to be let out to his litterbox. And then he’s up, and there doesn’t seem much point in trying to go back down.

He’s puttering about in the kitchen when Suki comes out of her room, pyjama-clad and hair an unruly mess.

She rubs sleep from her eye and yawns, “Morning.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sokka groans.

Suki drops onto the stool at the mystery kitchen-living room dividing counter. “Rough night?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he tells her. “Too much going on in my head.”

“That’s a first.”

Sokka glares at her.

“Sorry,” she says, “are we not doing jokes at each other’s expense this morning?”

“Not mine,” he says. 

He opens the fridge and examines its contents. Nothing new has appeared since he last checked two minutes ago. Unfortunate.

He turns back to Suki. “Do you want to go somewhere?”

“What, now?”

“Yeah,” Sokka says. “I don’t want to make breakfast. Let’s get pancakes or something.”

Suki looks at him carefully, and then she says, “If we wait an hour we could do brunch?”

Sokka thinks for a minute. “I’ll see if Toph’s up.”

He slinks back to his room to find his phone, buried amid layers of blankets and sheets. No new messages.

He dials Toph’s number, and loses count of how many times it rings before she finally picks up.

“What,” she says.

“Do you want to get brunch? Suki’s buying.”

“Sunday is a day of rest.”

“Sure,” Sokka says, “but I’m about to have a terrible day, so I want bottomless mimosas and overpriced toast. Are you coming?”

Toph sighs. “Is it the usual place?”

“Yeah,” Sokka says. “I’ll see you in an hour.”

“You’re a demon.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

Sokka hangs up, and then he kickstarts his own terrible day before he can stop himself.

**[Sokka // 09:42]** let me know when you get back from your date?

Even looking at the word, knowing what’s coming, churns something awful in his gut. All of a sudden he can’t stand it, so he drops the phone back into the folds of the bed and flees into the bathroom to shower off his shame.

He brushes his teeth, too, for something to waste time on, and regrets it as soon as he remembers the non-alcoholic component of a mimosa. Off to a great start.

He checks his phone when he comes back into his room, just to spite himself.

**[Zuko // 09:48]** Sure. Are you doing anything today?

_You don’t know the half of it,_ he thinks. The awful something in his gut twists like a knife.

**[Sokka // 09:55]** brunch w/ suki and toph

 **[Sokka // 09:55]** after that im not sure

It’s only half a lie. He knows what he’s doing later when Zuko gets home, but he doesn’t know how it’ll go or what he’ll do with himself after.

Brunch is a strange affair. 

They don’t end up getting bottomless mimosas, because as much as Sokka would love to get a little disorderly at noon on a Sunday, he still has to find his way home. Sokka gets his expensive toast, though, and a stack of pancakes to go with it. Suki has something with eggs and a pretentious name, and Toph gets, of all things, a grilled cheese sandwich. It’s a complicated grilled cheese, with all sorts of extras, but it is still a grilled cheese. Such is the nature of brunch.

They don’t talk about why they’re at an emergency brunch. 

Toph doesn’t ask, so Sokka doesn’t volunteer the information. It feels a little strange not to tell her, but right now, he’s not sure how much there is to tell. There’ll be more later, and he’ll fill her in then, but for a little while he wants to forget everything that’s going on.

Two hours go by, and then Sokka and Suki walk Toph to her bus stop and say goodbye, and the waiting game starts. 

They get home, and Suki sits with him for hours in front of the TV, and he wishes they still had ice cream. He’s not really watching what’s on, some “history” marathon about aliens and ancient architecture, he’s just waiting.

Well - that’s not it, exactly. He’s waiting, but he’s not, because he’s _dreading._

He thought, last night lying in bed staring at the dark, that he might wake up and be fine. That he might wake up and be adjusted to it, have come to terms with it, but no such luck. So he sits there watching an old white guy theorise about why the pyramids couldn’t have been built by humans, and feels the mental anguish bleed into a physical ache, a weight on his chest. Maybe it’s lingering flu symptoms, but it probably isn’t.

His phone buzzes, finally, on the couch cushion between them. Suki looks at it as Sokka reaches for it, and he can’t read her expression. 

“Must’ve been some lunch,” she says. She’s not smiling.

“I guess I’ll find out,” Sokka says. He takes the phone into his room, and as he closes the door, he hears the volume rise on the old white man.

**[Zuko // 16:11]** I’m home :)

Sokka’s cheeks warm, and the ache in his chest swells into something that doesn’t hurt the same way, and that’s how he knows that it’s gone too far - that even in this state, knowing the conversation he’s about to start, Zuko can still pull a reaction like this from him.

He takes a deep breath, letting the sugar-sweet feeling of fondness collapse back into that dreary ache, and presses _call._

He sits on the corner of his bed and waits for the second ring. He doesn’t make it that far.

“Hey,” Zuko says, and Sokka can hear his smile. He feels like he’s wrapped in barbed wire.

“How was your - your lunch?” He can’t even bring himself to say the word. Embarrassment washes over him, waves on a cliffside.

“It was, um -” Zuko says, and a terrible part of Sokka wishes for a different ending to the sentence, “it was nice. I had a good time. I’ve never had a second first date before.”

“A second first date,” Sokka echoes.

“Yeah,” Zuko says. “I don’t think it’s fair to count Wednesday, right?” 

Zuko laughs then, a small huff of a thing, and Sokka feels a little like he’s glowing. This is exactly why he tried to keep this part of this _thing_ with Zuko buried; now that it’s in the open - as much as admitting it to himself counts as the open - and he’s not keeping himself in the dark about his own emotions, he’s feeling everything tenfold. 

Zuko is about to go into more detail, but Sokka cuts him off, because he doesn’t know if he can listen to it.

“Do you -” he starts, and he means to finish it with _like him,_ but he doesn’t want the answer to that. “Do you think you’ll see him again?”

Zuko hums for a moment, thinking. “I don’t know. He’s - I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll see how it goes, I guess.”

“Okay,” Sokka says, and there’s a lump in his throat threatening to seal it off completely if he doesn’t get this out now. “So that - that means this is done, right?”

“We - what?”

“This,” Sokka says again. “Us.”

 _Us._ It feels like a thorn in his tongue. There was never an _us,_ not really, not in any way that really means anything. Not in a way that Sokka wishes there could be.

“What do you mean, us?” Zuko’s voice has lost its cheer. He sounds wary now, and Sokka can’t blame him, because it’s not like he’s handling this spectacularly well.

Sokka sighs, reaches a hand up to free his hair from its ponytail and drag his hand through it. “I mean us. This. Our -”

He cuts himself off. Our _what,_ exactly? It’s not a relationship. Well - sure, it’s a relationship, but it’s not a _relationship._ They’re not dating, Zuko isn’t his, it’s not forever, it was doomed from the start.

“Our arrangement,” he finishes, and nearly chokes on it. It’s the wrong word, because it’s more than that. It’s more than an _arrangement,_ but he doesn’t know what else to call it, because he doesn’t know if it’s ever been less than what it is to him now.

Zuko doesn’t say anything, and Sokka can feel the silence like a second skin, so he keeps talking. Keeps digging.

“It’s just - you’re dating, or you’re maybe dating, and I’m -” Sokka swallows. There are too many ways to end that thought. “I’m not trying to get in the way of that. You deserve to find love, Zuko. You deserve something real. Something more than - whatever this is.”

“So you - you want to end this,” Zuko doesn’t say it like a question. 

_No,_ Sokka thinks. _More than anything, no._

“I want you to be happy,” is what he says. “I want you to be in love.”

And that’s the truth of it, finally. He wants Zuko to be in love. He wants Zuko to feel how he feels, even if it’s for someone else.

Zuko makes a sound that’s half surprise, half something else Sokka can’t pinpoint. “I’m - I mean, can we - are we still friends?”

 _We weren’t friends before,_ Sokka thinks, but that’s not what Zuko’s asking. He’s asking if it’s _all_ over, not just the parts that come with soft lips and rough hands and evidence that lives on their skin for days.

“Of course we’re friends,” Sokka breathes, because as much as he knows it’ll hurt to see Zuko again, the alternative is worse. “You’re stuck with me now.”

It’s barely a joke, and Sokka doesn’t even think it’s funny, but Zuko lets out a little laugh anyway. The sound of it sets Sokka at ease, just enough that he thinks maybe he’ll be able to deal with the consequences of this after all.

“I wouldn’t want to be stuck with anyone else,” Zuko says. It’s quiet, and maybe Sokka’s not meant to hear it, but he does, and it’s like being electrocuted. This needs to end, before Sokka says something he regrets. Something _else_ he regrets.

“I have to - I have to go,” Sokka says. “I’ll see you - whenever, I guess.”

“Sokka, wait.”

His treacherous heart pumps hope into his blood. “Yeah?”

“Are we -” Zuko pauses to take a deep breath. “Are we okay?”

That’s the question, isn’t it?

“Yeah,” Sokka tells him. “We’ll be okay.”

He just wishes he could believe it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will be the last update for a little while! i'm taking a break to work on another project, but i'll be back soon :) i should be back to this fic in march :)
> 
> THERE'S NO COVID IN THIS AU HE JUST HAD THE REGULAR FLU

**Author's Note:**

> find me on [tumblr](https://goldrushzukka.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/carlyraejervis?s=09/)


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